


Stories at a Bar

by NiteFang



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiteFang/pseuds/NiteFang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because mermaids, fairies, and the heavenly chorus all know there will always be stories at bars, whether it be about some existential crisis, musical prowess, knives, or cinnamon-sprinkled hot chocolate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prince and the Pirate

**Author's Note:**

> There is no specific outline for this story, bro. For the first time in my life, there is no rhyme, reason, or ready answer. You don’t know where this gonna go; I don’t know where this is gonna go. We’re just gonna have a good time winging it, eh?

**_The Prince and the Pirate_ **

* * *

Early on a Saturday night, David Nolan walked into the Rabbit Hole. It could be said that he _slumped_ in, but he’d been raised a farm boy with impeccable manners and had lived a few years as a prince with even more rigid protocols. David didn’t _slump_ anywhere, bar or not. _He strode forlornly._

Dark and smelling of spices with a base of liquor and cigarette smoke, the Rabbit Hole wasn’t very full for a Saturday night. A few tables were empty, and the bar on the far end of the room only had four occupants. A couple on the right side were a few more nibbles from eating each other’s faces off. A man sat on the far left, crying into his sandwich. The last one sat in the middle, in front of the beer taps. His back had been to David, but the cool glint of silver metal in the dim light gave away his identity.

David honestly should’ve seen it coming. It was a _bar_ , for crying out loud.

They’d greeted each other in their customary manner:

“Sea rat.”

“Your Royal Unpleasantness.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries; Hook asked after the family before David complimented his attempt at adapting his wardrobe and offered to buy him a spiked collar and black nail polish. David ordered and finished his beer, which was then followed by a whiskey and then another. Hook grudgingly revealed his struggle to find something suitable to eat, which was followed by a small argument about misleading names of “hamburger” and “chili” and was concluded by David ordering him a bowl of spaghetti to keep things simple.

Once Hook got over his trepidation over eating a bowl of what looked like human viscera, David got a few (three) new refills of whiskey, which were consumed throughout an explanation of what spaghetti was, how “Ruebens” were not evidence of the society’s descent into cannibalism, and how walking around with a hook might not be the best idea these days.

That, of course, set off the hooked half of their little duo, who decided to broach the reason why David had _forlornly strode_ into the bar, which up until then had been under an unspoken agreement to not be brought up. And since David was pretty much half a sip from hammered, he didn’t have much inclination to ignore the problem that’d been weighing on his bones.

“So what happened at home?” Hook asked.

David’s eye twitched. “I…don’t know what you’re talking about. Not everyone needs to wallow in their rim—mim— _misery_ at a bar.”

“You’re in a pub on a Saturday night, mate,” Hook deadpanned. “You’ve finished off a beer and a few glasses of whiskey in about thirty minutes, and you are, in fact, about five years older than your daughter. Tell me, Your Gracelessness, is your crown made of gold and denial?”

David glowered at him. He was _never_ going to live down the fact that he was the last to get his sea legs on the _Jolly Roger_. “No, it’s made from the bones of insufferable pirates.”

Hook chuckled. “I see she gets the sauciness from both sides of the family then.”

David wanted to punch him again.

“Which brings us back to the original problem of what happened to your family that necessitated a dip in the Seas of Inebriation,” Hook said.

David sighed and dropped his hand on the bar top in frustration, warranting a worried glance from the bartender, who’d been pointedly refusing to make eye contact with the pair all night. “And how did you come up with that conclusion?”

“You’re a family man,” Hook replied confidently. “You are only ever shoved out of your princely composure when your family is somehow compromised. And since nothing is on fire, exploding, causing earthquakes, or conjuring clouds of strangely-colored smoke, I’m hoping my assumptions of it simply being some sort of change in the emotional dynamic rather than any physical danger are correct. What say you?”

Hook: 3, David: 1. Damn it.

“I need more whiskey.”

“I’ll take that as a vehement ‘yes.’”

“Shut up, Jones.”

“I don’t know whether to feel complimented that we’ve graduated to the usage of my real name or if I should be worried that I’ve pushed enough of your buttons to necessitate it.”

“You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?” David sighed.

Hook smiled through a mouthful of spaghetti and shook his head. When David rolled his eyes, Hook took his turn to sigh. He dropped the smile and stirred the noodles in the bowl. “For all our talk of simple alliances, Your Majesty, I _do_ consider you and your family to be my friends.”

David’s scowl slid right off at Hook’s earnest expression. _Damn it._ He should’ve stuck with beers.

“What happened?” Hook asked once more.

“The _curse_ is what happened.”

“Barman! More whiskey for the prince, if you will.”

David leaned heavily against the bar, shoulders slumped as he raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m a failure as a father. Even before she was _born_ , I did a crap job of fathering.”

Hook shared a pointed look with the barman, who’d come up with the whiskey bottle again. “Best leave the whole thing here. That’s a good man.”

“I-I know I shoun— _sound_ —”

“Drunk?”

“—pathetic—”

“Close enough.”

“—but it is what it is, you know?” David chuckled and held the dark golden liquid up to his eye. “I-I-I… Every scenario I had in my head while Snow was still pregnant got completely thrown out the window when I heaped this mac—mash—massive responsibility on Emma’s shoulders before she was even…born. Playing with her, teaching her things, spending time with her, _watching her grow up_ —I just… I-I-I messed it all up. I can’t be the father I wanted to be ‘cause in trying to give my daughter her best chance, I put her through hell and built up the worst image of myself possible.”

“So you abandoned her to save her?”

David tore his eyes away from his drink long enough to look at Hook, who had a fairly normal expression. Dark eyes with the ever-upturned corner of a mouth that would always hint at the truly _messed up_ person hidden under the deviously roguish personality. He looked at David like he always did: amusedly waiting and calculating any small detail or opening to somehow to use to his advantage. But his words and tone belied that expression, that _mask_.

Pirate, past, and pesky attitude aside, David trusted Killian Jones. He’d sailed under the captain, understood and respected the motivations behind decisions, and acknowledged that Jones was genuine in his newfound journey to distance himself from his quest for revenge. He was a good man, much like another pirate David had met long ago—when a trip over the ocean exposed him to a brilliantly insane drunk who dared to bow to the whims of the sea only to tie her shoelaces together.

And who was he—a farmer posing as his dead, prince-twin—to judge a man by his past rather than by his present actions?

“For all intents and purposes, yes,” David said. “I did. But I didn’t…mean to…” He sighed, trying to find the right words so he didn’t sound like a complete screw-up. “If your ship was under siege and your wife had just given birth to your daughter, what would you have done? You would’ve sent her off the boat because the… _tempestuous_ _seas_ are a lesser evil to men who would kill her on sight.”

“ _Tempestuous seas_ indeed,” Hook muttered.

“Snow and I chose to let her go,” David continued, either completely ignoring Hook’s comments or unhearing of them. “Even if Regina’s men weren’t trying to kill us, what kind of life would we have lived under Regina’s curse? She probably would’ve been separated from us, put with another family. All of us would’ve lived with this…gaping hole in our hearts, never knowing why. Just… _lost forever_.”

“Well, you seem to have made peace with this decision, mate,” Hook said, swirling his half-empty bottle of rum. “I don’t know why you’re having this…crisis.”

“It doesn’t mean that I like it.” David took a long gulp of his own drink. “Emma is…a miracle in so many different ways. Regardless of who I am in relation to her, I admire who she’s become—not _in spite of anything_ but because of who she is as a whole, how she’s handled herself and how she continues to stand in the face of everything that’s happened to her and just… _sucker punch it_. Right in the face. Much like I did you, remember?”

“Yes,” Hook answered blandly.

“She’s… She’s my hero,” David concluded warmly, smiling down at his whiskey. And then it faded again. “But the thing is…I betrayed her. W-We set up a plan—Snow and I. We talked about it and we agreed to be her friend, to get to know her. But what… I can’t even… The entire basis of our friendship is essentially and unintentionally built on my inability to be a father. I-I screwed up, and I made _her_ pay for it, made her suffer, and then fix it. She—She’s my _daughter_ , and I love her with all my heart. I look at her and see this admirable woman, but I also see the broken little girl that I… _betrayed._

“I don’t even know where she grew up, what school she went to, what kind of friends she had. I don’t know what her first car was, who taught her how to drive. Oh, my God, do I even know her favorite color? It’s blue, right? Or is it purple? I know it’s like a deep, vibrant color—royal blue or violet, either one of those. Damnit, what if it’s red? I don’t—what—I just… And what’s worse is that even before the curse, I heaped that responsibility of being our savior onto her shoulders before she was even _born_. What kind of—what _father does that_? What kind of man am I?”

Hook sighed and thoughtfully tapped the bar with the curve of his hook. “You said you were getting to know her as a friend. Why are you worrying about trivial details like school or…transportation?”

“Because it’s important! These were… _milestones_ in her life, and we— _her parents_ —have missed them all!”

“I _highly_ doubt Emma would begrudge you for missing those—”

“See—but you couldn’t possibly know that!” David protested, fully turning to face Hook.

Hook threw his head back and laughed. “As if I have _no_ idea what it’s like to be abandoned by parents? David, mate, prince or not, you’re a bloody idiot.”

David blinked, completely thrown. “What—”

“The fact that Emma is _willingly_ living in the same place as you, talking to you on a regular basis without any bitter tones, and generally not rebuffing your attempts at friendliness—or, hell, _not punching_ you every time she sees you—is a sure sign you’re doing well enough in your endeavor to rebuild your relationship,” Hook said. “Being abandoned—right from the very start—takes its toll on a person, yes. And while that hurts no matter the motive, _knowing_ said motive _does_ help.”

“Emma knows, but I really don’t think it makes a difference. She said almost the same thing before, when we first brought up a legitimate conversation as daughter and father and mother.” David threw back the rest of the whiskey and slammed the glass back onto the bar, barely even wincing at the burn; he was _plastered_.

“Did she _really_ say that? Or did she simply react the way Emma Swan would react to finally meeting her parents? Emma _bloody_ Swan who’s cynical enough about life on top of her disbelief of magic? Don’t make me reiterate my previous statement.”

“What statement?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot!” David cried.

“Tell me, _Deputy Nolan, Prince Charming, Prince James, Prince David, shepherd—_ whatever the bloody hell your name is,” Hook said pompously as he poured David a new glass, “has Emma ever called you her father? Has she ever acknowledged the fact that she is your daughter?”

David immediately relaxed and smiled a little. “She… She called me ‘dad’…back when, uh, you’d run off with the bean and we all thought Storybrooke was gonna implode.”

Hook flinched at the memory but pushed his point. “Then your problem’s sorted. She considers you her father, regardless of the heat-of-the-moment situation. Even if she may harbor some resentment over the past, it helps to know why you did what you had to and to have you there, caring about her now, _showing_ her you _do_ love her regardless of whether or not she’s in your arms as a babe or as a twenty-eight year old woman.”

David sighed, crossed his arms on the bar, and then dropped his forehead onto his arms. “I don’t know how I wound up talking to you about this.”

“You’re drunk,” Hook replied simply, taking a swig of his rum and then another bite of his spaghetti.

“So what _did_ happen to your mother and father, Jones?” David asked.

Hook swallowed his food, and David lifted his head from his arms. They turned and stared at each other, one with disdain at the subject change and the other with commiseration.

“They’re dead and therefore irrelevant,” Hook answered. He took another long drink and forked up another bite. “And, once again, you are drunk and are therefore undeserving of such a tale.”

“Don’t make me punch you again.”

“There are many walls around you. Use those.”

“I’d rather deface you rather than private property. I’m still a deputy.”

“That means you should be protecting the community, and since I haven’t committed any crimes recently, I’m still in the percentage of people you should be protecting.”

“I’m off-duty.”

“You’re off your bloody rocker.”

“I’m so drunk.”

“And somehow simultaneously more annoying _and_ more tolerable.”

“Should I be worried that made sense to me? I probably wouldn’t have understood that if I was sober.”

“A testament to either your drunken state of mind or your lack of intelligence in your sobriety.”

“You’re still not allowed to date my daughter.”

“You need more of that whiskey. Barman! More whiskey here, please!”

“No, no, no, no, no, _no_.” David shook his head. “I’m already a few sips from slurring. That’s a bad idea.”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

“It’s still not gonna convince me that you’re allowed to date my daughter.”

“The odds of me _dating_ your daughter is low enough as it is without your input. You don’t have much to worry about, honestly.”

“You still identify as a pirate?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’ll always be something to worry about.”

“I said ‘ _much_ to worry about,’ not ‘anything.’ Pay attention.”

“I’m drunk. The only thing I’ll pay you is the fifteen punches I must owe you at this point.”

“And we’re back to the punching?”

“It’ll always come back to the punching. Your face should be used to it by now.”

“Mate, I’ll _never_ be used to your intense fascination with making contact with my face. Honestly—you need to control yourself.”

“And _you_ need to get over yourself.”

“ _You_ need to get over me, _sweetheart_. I’ve got enough on my hands with the women in this town. Besides, what would the missus say?”

“She’d say, ‘Stay the hell away from my daughter.’”

“Oh, come now. Emma’s a big girl. If she wants someone to stay the hell away from her, she’ll damn sure put up enough walls to ensure her wishes are met.”

David sighed and began spinning the empty glass. “Those damn walls. I hate those things.”

“Those are some sturdy buggers.”

“Yep. And I’m pretty sure I gave her the bricks to build them.”

“Don’t take all the credit,” Hook said, patting his back and taking a long sip of rum. “I’m sure there are other men to blame.”

David scowled. “Fucking Neal.”

Hook nearly spat out his rum. He managed to swallow before bursting into laughter.

“Shut up,” David snapped, snatching the rum bottle and taking a pull. “I understand his aversion to magic considering his background, but that’s no excuse to leave my daughter _in jail_. And I know he didn’t know she was pregnant, but that just makes it so much worse.”

“He’s a ponce.”

“Whatever that is, I’m sure it’s—” Another sip of rum. “— _spot-on_.”

Hook plucked his bottle from David’s hands and took a sip of his own. “This town’s just full of extremely problematic people.”

“You have no idea,” David muttered, waving to the bartender for another drink. “I should buy her something.”

“What?” Hook frowned at the non-sequitur and slashed his hand across his throat at the bartender, who was two steps from refilling David’s glass.

“Emma,” David answered morosely. “I should buy her something. Spoil her a little—the way I wasn’t able to.”

“She’s a grown woman,” Hook said. “I doubt she’d want stuffed bears or pretty dresses anymore.”

“Which brings me back to the issue of me not knowing her well enough,” David sighed, scrubbing his face with his palms. “Apart from buying her chocolate ice cream, I have no idea what to treat her with.”

“Jewelry?”

David scowled. “I don’t think she’d be very fond of that. Emma’s not big on jewelry, and what she has already carries some massive significance. I can’t just pluck something from a display. Besides, Snow is better at that sort of thing.”

“Well, what’s something you think she’ll like and appreciate?” Hook asked.

“I could buy her a new gun.”

“I would sleep better at night if you didn’t do that.”

“I could build her a house?”

“You are in no state to be handling anything even resembling an axe or hammer.”

David groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I _suck_ at this.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up _too much_ ,” Hook said with a smile.

“It doesn’t even have to be something to be bought. I just… Out of everything else, all I want is for Emma to be happy. I want her to be at peace.”

“Sounds like you want to kill her.”

“Shut up, Jones! Peace doesn’t mean death! I mean, it could just be letting her take a vacation from sheriff-ing—”

“That’s not a word.”

“—or asking Regina to go take a vacation in the woods or…” He trailed off as his eyes glazed over and a small smile formed on his face.

“What?” Hook asked, waving a hand over David’s eyes. “What is it?”

David’s eyes suddenly came back to focus in a way that made Hook worry. “We could find the white stag.”

“The white—”

“If we find it, we could ask it give Emma the blessing of peace!”

“Won’t we need Emma with u—”

“We’ll find it in the woods and then bottle the blessing and bring it back to Emma!”

Hook’s eyebrows shot up. _What the bloody f—_ No. _No_. He was a pirate. He was over three hundred years old. He had traversed many realms. Nevertheless, he still had lines that would not be crossed. Killian Jones was not _nearly_ drunk enough for that. There was not enough treasure at the end of that journey, not enough amusement to be found in any of it, and while there was a beautiful woman in the mix, said gorgeous woman would probably _beat him with a bedpost_ rather than _rattle a few_ with him. Chasing after bloody _deer_ with a drunken _prince/deputy_ at _night_ was leaps and bounds over his lines.

“Mate, you are _drunk_. I refuse to risk incurring the wrath of your wife and daughter by having _anything_ to do with this.”

*** * ***

Hook pushed David into a booth and dove in after him just before Emma barreled into the Rabbit Hole, and as soon as the doors were blasted open, her eyes immediately zeroed in on him. As they always did and _should_ , of course, but…. _you know._ He’d prefer the passion in her eyes was less _infused with rage_ and more _saturated with lust_.

“What—the—hell?!” Emma growled, stomping to their booth.

“Hi, Emma,” David said, carefully enunciating his syllables.

Hook smiled up at her sweetly. “Hello, darli—”

“Go nail your tongue to a floorboard.” Emma turned back to David, missing Hook’s grin and silent laugh. Her voice smoothed into a casual tone. “Do you know what I’ve been doing for the last hour?”

David cleared his throat and tried to sit up straighter. “Uh—”

“I’ve been on the phone,” she said, smiling down at them patronizingly. “ _Ruby_ called. She was a little worried about the two _vaguely familiar men_ arguing over the lawn decoration displays at Game of Thorns. I couldn’t even hang up when _Marco calls_ and says he caught sight of a pair of idiots buying giant bags of nuts and bouquets of wildflowers and were heading into Gold’s shop.”

Hook suppressed any inclination to act. He was torn between wincing in shame and bursting out laughing at the absurdity of the night itself.

“You know who calls me next?” she continued, lightly punching David in the shoulder—as if she was just relaying a funny anecdote. “ _Archie!_ Apparently, he was walking Pongo when he spotted a couple _dark figures_ throwing nuts and flower heads all over the edge of the forest and singing some sort of _sea chanty_.”

Hook rubbed his face tiredly to hide the grin he couldn’t stop from spreading across his face.

“You know what happened when I called Gold and asked what these two unidentified boneheads bought?” Emma continued, chuckling and shaking her head. And then her good humor evaporated. She leveled a dark glare at both of them. “They apparently got some _enchanted deer food_ to mix in with the flowers and the nuts and caused a _stampede_ that nearly hit town!”

“What’s the problem here?”

They all turned to Leroy, who strode up with a pat on Emma’s back, a nod at David, and a scowl at Hook.

“These two idiots almost led a stampede onto our doorsteps.”

Leroy frowned, his head jerking back in disbelief. “What?”

“Yeah! They—”

“They’ve been _here_.”

“What?” Only she asked it in such a way that the intonation of the question mark was absent, so it sounded more like: _“What.”_

Leroy shrugged, and Hook was surprised David managed to hold it together. God knows he was about to lose it.

“Yeah, sister. Bitched at each other at the bar, then started making the rounds, asking every table who they liked better—nearly announced a swordfight to prove it, but we managed to stop that before they started whipping stuff outta their pants.”

Emma’s dumbstruck expression lasted two seconds before her eyes narrowed and shifted back to Hook and David.

“We haven’t lied to you, love,” Hook pointed out, easily picking up on what she was doing in spite of his drunkenness.

“Hey!” Leroy called over the din. “Who did we agree was better? Nolan or Jones?”

Some called out “Nolan!” Few called out “Jones!”

Emma could only stand there, blinking at Leroy, David, Hook, and the rest of the bar. _None of them were lying_ , and she wanted to stab someone’s eye out. Granted, David and Hook weren’t lying ‘cause they hadn’t said much of anything, but the fact that Leroy wasn’t lying either…

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and dropped her head. She was too tired for this fuckery. No one got hurt, nothing was damaged, the stampede was herded back into the woods. No laws were broken.

When she straightened up and opened her eyes again, she glared at David and Hook. “I hope the both of you got stabbed in the ass by some antlers,” she said flatly before turning and walking out. She didn’t look over her shoulder as she called out, “And I’m _totally_ telling Mom!”

Hook grinned as soon as the doors shut behind her.

David sighed and slumped forward, his forehead on the table. “Snow’s gonna kill me,” he slurred.

“Hey.”

David looked up at Hook, who continued to grin.

“She called her ‘mum.’”

Letting the smile grow and linger for a bit, David sat back and cleared his throat.

“Progress,” Hook said.

“You two idiots owe me,” Leroy interjected, sliding into the booth beside David. “Lucky you did that stupid competition before you left.”

Hook reached up and signaled to the bartender. “Oi! Three pints!”

“No, no more for me,” David called. “Just two.”

“ _Now_ you decide to stop,” Hook said, chuckling. “ _After_ we were nearly mauled by almost the entire deer population of Storybrooke.”

The two men glanced at each other before bursting into laughter.

“I should’ve let Emma lock you up,” Leroy grumbled.

“You would’ve been right there with us, trog,” Hook said, still laughing. “The flowers and nuts were _your_ idea, after all.”

“Via phone!” Leroy protested.

“Still helped,” David chortled. Then he sighed again and patted Leroy’s shoulder. “We’re like a bad joke.”

Hook grinned, patting the table. “A dwarf, a pirate, and a prince walk into a bar…”

“And a pirate _died_ ,” Leroy finished, glowering at Hook. “I don’t know what kind of designs you’re trying to carve into our Emma with that Hook of yours, _bilge rat_ , but I got my eyes on you—me and my brothers, all _fourteen of our eyes._ ”

The bartender set the two pints on the table and Leroy grabbed his, got up, and walked back to his brothers.

“That took a menacing turn,” Hook said, taking a sip.

“But it’s true enough,” David said, narrowing his eyes at the other man, though the intimidating effect was absent due to his drunkenness. “I _won’t_ actively try to hurt you anymore.”

“Hallelujah?”

“But the warning stands, Hook.”

“And we’re back to the moniker.”

“I know Emma can take care of herself, but that’s only gonna be the tip of the iceberg.”

“Mate—”

“Flirt and make as much googly-eyes at her as you want, but know that if you take one step too far…Snow…will shove a sword so far up your ass that you’ll lick metal every time you swallow.”

“That’s a pleasant picture.”

David looked around, searching for something. “I should’ve ordered a drink,” he muttered. He picked up the ketchup bottle on the side and held it up. “A toast—for sturdier alliances and your terrible wooing skills.”

Hook made a face at the ketchup bottle and at David himself. “As if your skills are any better. You were robbed by your wife.”

“But I caught her.”

Hook smiled. “ _I_ won’t need a net.”

“Toast or I punch you again!”

“Fine!”


	2. The Princess and the Pirate

**_The Princess and the Pirate_ **

* * *

“ _Ra-ra-ra-da-da-da-da—_ ”

“I will literally punch the shit out of you if you do not stop singing right now.”

“Emma, darling, you were so much more fun earlier,” Jones said, continuing to waltz around the living room with his imaginary partner.

“I wasn’t _alone_ with your drunken ass earlier,” Emma reminded him, taking another sip of the rum in her tumbler—the one she promised would be her last for the night, before she finally kicked Jones out onto the hallway outside the front door with a good-luck-salute and a punctuated door-slam. “I had buffers.”

“And what delightful buffers they are,” Jones said, doing a surprisingly and disturbingly graceful twirl.

For a man who was so ridiculously drunk off his ass to be dancing by himself and trying to sing along to a Top 40 he must barely even understand, he wasn’t even staggering around; he was _waltzing_. Now, Emma hadn’t been to any balls or formal affairs with structured dances and whatnot. She’d seen movies. That was the extent of it. But she could tell that this drunk-ass motherfucker was pulling some sort of formal waltz out of the depths of his centuries-old memory. He was throwing in some occasionally-complicated footwork that she wouldn’t have caught if she wasn’t so incredulously disbelieving of how well he performed under the influence.

She kind of wished her “delightful buffers” were here if only for the purpose of saving her from… _this_. Mary Margaret might have actually danced with him, David might have at least whacked him upside the head and brought out the deck of cards, and Henry would have most certainly harangued him into watching the Disney movie that made him so popular.

But no.

They’d ditched her. Two times they’d screwed her over that night alone, and okay, no, she wasn’t genuinely pissed at them. Okay, maybe a little bit for the second one, but the first one wasn’t bad.

Neither she nor David had thought anything of Mary Margaret and Henry going out to get pie (when David had accidentally turned the original pie into a faintly-pumpkin-flavored charcoal brick). They were going to Granny’s, for God’s sake; it wasn’t a bad idea. Lo and behold, the bad idea stumbled into the pair in the form of Captain Killian “Hook” Jones, who was two steps past plastered. Damn Mary Margaret and the undying compassion and kindness that got passed down to Henry. They dragged Jones back to the apartment with a fresh pie and offered dinner to cushion the blow of the alcohol and the sofa so he wouldn’t wind up roadkill again. Both Emma and David immediately vetoed the idea, nearly stumbling over each other to volunteer to drive Jones back to his ship whenever dinner was over.

But _of course_ Mary Margaret would have the outstandingly devious idea to offer both David and Emma alcohol in order to smooth out whatever tensions there may be. _Of course_ she would know that now the sheriff and her deputy were in no state to drive and subsequently took away their keys. _Of course_ she would have the brilliant timing to ask Henry if he wanted to catch the movie Leroy and the others were showing on a projector in the park. _Of course_ she would turn and give David one of her pointed glares to force him to come along. _Of course_ Henry would throw his mother a wink as he threw her under the bus. _Of course_ Mary Margaret was listening between the lines when Emma talked about how she was worried Jones wasn’t going to acclimatize to Storybrooke. _Of course_ Mary Margaret’s entire perspective had shifted as soon as Emma had told her about her history with Neal. _Of course they would leave the drunk pirate in the capable hands of the town sheriff._

Bringing Jones over wasn’t so bad, really. It made sense, and it was better that he was drunk under supervision. Leaving her stranded in the apartment with Jones, on the other hand…

That shit was not kosher.

“Swan?”

She swiveled the bar stool and propped her feet up on the other one beside her. “What?”

“Have I ever told you about my good friend Gabe?” he asked, twirling around the living room with the kind of grace that made her want to trip him.

“Well, you’ve told me about Finn the incompetent buffoon, Derek the smarmy cad, and Edmund the morose,” Emma answered, tilting her head back, closing her eyes, and sighing deeply. “So, no. Nothing about Gabe yet.”

“A good bloke, he was,” Jones said. “The best of the best. But I hated that buggering fool sometimes. You know why, Swan? Pretty, pretty Swan?”

She opened one eye to see him grinning at her sweetly. _Idiot_.

“Because in the course of one night, he could go from the strongest ale to the weakest beer—the complete opposite of what you’re supposed to do in these types of inebriated situations—and wake up the next morning without a trace of a hangover.”

Emma snorted.

“Been many a time when he was threatened to be thrown overboard by my men—just as many a time as when he was actually dangled over the railing too. Had a nasty habit of singing bright and early in the morning—voice grating enough even on a deaf man’s ears, regardless of whether one had a hangover or not.”

His little story had her right on the verge of genuinely contemplating letting him stay the night so she could torture him in the morning. She wasn’t the best singer, but she was pretty sure Mary Margaret and David would sing along with her if only to drown her out and lessen the painful blow. But the obvious pitfall would be the _letting him stay the night_ part. She was pretty sure David would have sobered up by the time they got back, and if not, she would guilt-trip Mary Margaret into driving Jones back to his ship anyway.

“…help that whenever any of my men would try to use him as their—what do you people call it these days? Bird man? Feather man? Claw man—”

“Wingman,” Emma corrected him, reaching down to unzip her boots and toss them down onto the floor.

“Ah, thanks, love. Whenever they’d tried to use him as a wingman, he’d inevitably and inadvertently manage to seduce the woman himself. He was loyal to a fault, but that unfortunate magnetism made for many an awkward night on the _Jolly Roger_. But he was a brilliant knife fighter. He could catch them, blade between his teeth, and whip his head to throw it back. He could catch it in midair, easily, or throw it so hard that it’d sink hilt-deep into the mainmast—not that I’d appreciated the destruction of my ship.” He grimaced at the memory and sighed. “Whatever he did to my girl with his knives, though, Gabe was a good man. He was the best at patching us all up—good with herbs and bandages. Said he learnt it all from his mum and dad, who were village healers. Fortunate position he had, frankly, considering there was a lot of bitterness that my men could accumulate against him. But if they needed him when they were bleeding through their ears or when their guts were about to decorate their belts, they knew they couldn’t hate him too much.”

Jones snickered and danced his way over to Emma, picking up her hands and swaying them back and forth in time to the beat.

“It was hard to hate the idiot, for some more than others—namely one person in particular. See, Milah was not the first woman on my ship. I don’t follow by those bloody ridiculous rules about having women onboard. I’d actually admit it’d be more bad luck not to have them.” He winked at her and twirled under her hand. She couldn’t stop the small smile that appeared on her face of its own accord.

Fuck alcohol.

“Her name was Hylee,” Jones said, continuing his farce of a dance with her. Emma only rolled her eyes and let him dance with her limp arms. “A pretty Asian lass—a complete opposite of our good friend Mulan, though, in that this bloody bint could not shut her gob to save her own life, but _bloody hell_ she had such a way with words that could have Satan himself knitting wool scarves for her. A right manipulative woman she was, with a sharp wit that’d bring you to your knees in supplication. And she was arse-over-eyebrows in love with Gabe. She’d sit with him as he sharpened his knives and share her rum, patch _him_ up when he got into scrapes, and kiss his cheek before bed every night. He was the only one who could get her to stop talking and the only one who could see through her manipulations to get to the root of the matter.”

He moved from her hands to her hair, swinging locks about her face as the music came to a crescendo.

“Let me guess,” Emma sighed, swatting her hair out of her face and shooing him back toward the living room. “He didn’t love her back?”

“Gabe was brilliant,” Jones said, “in maths, in grammar, in the sciences, in history—but he was utterly useless in love. Didn’t I tell you about how horrid of a wingman he was? He was clueless about how smitten Hylee was with him.” He shook his head and somehow gracefully stepped over the low coffee table before he tripped over it. “Ridiculous. It was the most obvious thing in the world—you could spend five minutes on board and know exactly what she was feeling.”

“So what happened?” Emma asked, taking another sip of her drink.

“She died,” Jones answered bluntly. “Took her last breath in his arms and still didn’t tell him about how she felt.”

Frowning, Emma crossed her arms over her chest and wondered what possessed him to tell her this story.

“I’d asked her once before,” he said, “why she didn’t just tell him or grab him by the collar and kiss the hapless ponce. She said she’d never tell him because love wasn’t worth it.”

Emma paused for just _one second_ because even after everything—after her parents, after Henry—that kind of mindset still made sense to her. And she had a feeling she would always understand, for the rest of her life.

“Of course, I asked her, ‘Not worth what?’ She answered, ‘Not worth losing.’ And I couldn’t help but stand there on my quarterdeck and think, ‘Bloody buggering fuck, that does make sense.’”

And this time Emma paused for much longer, this time going as far as to look him straight in the eye—those godforsaken bright blue eyes. He’d stopped dancing and was standing there, most of his weight resting on his left foot, staring off into the distance, lost in thought, though his eyes were still locked onto hers.

Ever since their return to Storybrooke, she and Jones had built a steady rapport—notwithstanding the near-stampede incident two months ago. She’d even go as far as to say they were tentative friends. Allies, certainly. Enemies, no more.

But there was always something there—something in the way he touched her, in the way he looked at her, the way she looked for him on the streets during patrols, the way her chest would freeze and then warm into comfort whenever she saw him sitting at Granny’s. There was something in the small space between seconds where she could pause and think, _It wouldn’t be so bad, really._

But…

And that was it. _But._ Small spaces and somethings be damned because of everything that one word, that one, three lettered word connoted.

“Never did know me mum,” Jones continued, pulling her out of her reverie. “Sometimes I wish I never knew me dad—if only so that I wouldn’t know what I was missing. ‘Cause I think Hylee was right in that matter—we all tend to lose the people we love.”

Emma bit the inside of her cheek and sipped from her glass again.

“Baelfi— _Neal_ knows a lot about that too,” Jones said, eyes fixed somewhere near Emma’s elbow. “As much as I loved her, Milah _did_ walk away from him. I always tried to get her to go back for him, not just because I was convinced the three of us could be a family and all, but because the boy deserved better than that—better than that kind of mother and that type of father. But by the time I finally did meet him, I was conflicted. I loved his mother; I hated his father. I wanted to avenge Milah by killing Rumplestiltskin, but then Baelfire was there, and this was it. This was my opportunity to be there for him the way his father wasn’t, the way my own father wasn’t for me. I could have a family again—broken, but a family nonetheless.

“And then he found out about Milah, and he…confronted me about it and wound up leaving. He’d rather go to Pan than stay with me—as if I’d been the one to kill her with my own bare hands. And so in my anger, I decided to facilitate his departure by selling him out to Pan. And in a way, we left each other. He left me, and I left him with Pan.”

He looked up and fixed Emma with a sad smile. “We learn abandonment from the people who’ve done it to us. And Gabe…would go off in a corner and clean his knives by himself, never wanting anyone with him during that time. He patched up his crewmates the same as he always did, with a smile and a teasing that’d always lessen the pain instead of making it sting, but he stopped saying good-night to the rest of us. He’d say his good-morn’s and afternoon’s, but never the nights.”

“So he _did_ love her?” Emma asked.

“I asked,” Jones answered, “but he never did respond. The only thing he ever said about the matter was more of a vague allusion than anything else. Said that we always would lose the ones we loved—whether it be because they left us or we left them—but if it wasn’t worth it, it wouldn’t be what so many people fight for. And if you’re not willing to fight for it, you don’t deserve it.”

“What happened to him?”

Jones cleared his throat and leaned against the back of the couch, finally too distracted to keep dancing. “He retired. At thirty-five years old, the ponce _retired_ from pirating—went off and became a physician. Never did marry, though. I, er, visited his grave after my return from Neverland. Died a happy, unmarried man who’d apparently called his younger patients his honorary children and consoled the bereaved of his lost patients by telling them that love is an idea that lingers on the earth long after the person who had it has left.”

After a few seconds’ silence, Emma pulled her feet from the other stool and tucked them under herself instead. “Yeah,” she said softly, staring down at the knee of her jeans.

“What?”

She glanced up at him. “I mean, yeah, he sounded like a really good guy.”

Jones nodded in agreement and crossed one leg in front of the other, tucking his chin against his chest.

“What made you think of Gabe anyway?” she asked.

He lifted his face and fixed her with a serious look, and for a few seconds, Emma had a feeling that he was gonna say something that would either have her throwing him out of the apartment or clocking him right in the jaw.

Instead, he pushed off from the couch and walked toward her. Emma was fairly sure the extra sway in his swagger was the effect of the rum. He sat on the stool beside her and patted her knees. Unfurling her legs, he lifted them up and rested them on his lap.

“We’ve gotten morbid, haven’t we?” he asked, pulling the bottle of wine from beside the sink, below the bar. He finished off her glass and filled it with a few inches of wine. “Shall I tell you a bedtime story, Swan?”

Still frowning—at how he’d casually put them in close proximity, how willing she was to do it, how he’d finished off her drink, how he’d replaced it with wine, and now at the change in subject. “What?”

“A bedtime story,” he repeated. “Would you like me to tell you one?”

Emma snorted. “When _you’re_ the one who looks like he’s about to fall asleep.”

“Don’t let my hooded gaze fool you, love,” he said, tapping her knee with the curve of his hook.

She didn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out. “You’re such an idiot.”

He grinned and took a sip of wine from her glass before she stole it back. Clearing his throat, he leaned against the counter and rested his hand on her calf. “Once upon a swan— _bugger_. Once upon a _time_ , in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle.”

“Henry _did_ harangue you into watching Disney movies again, didn’t he?”

“Don’t interrupt a handsome pirate, love,” he chided, pursing his lips, “for their words can be the key to their undoing—of their lives or trousers, it doesn’t matter. Now, where was I? Ah! The young prince of the shining castle. You know, frankly, love, the beast in that film was still loads more attractive than the Dark One. Anyway, back to the story.”

Emma stifled her laugh, shielding her smile with her knuckles.

“Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle. He married a young princess whose inability to tan was a testament of her name, _Snow White_. They fell in love in a rush, but nevertheless theirs was a true love whose kiss conquered a powerful sleeping spell. Personally, I think it was a terrible hangover, and the prince’s terrible breath roused the poor princess from her slumber.”

She didn’t even hide it this time, thumping her elbow on the counter as she laughed, fingers fanned over her eyes. “God, I wish Henry hadn’t shown you that storybook.”

“Oh, come now, Swan. At least it’s not like the actual fairytales _this_ world fabricated. _Honestly_. Crocodiles can’t swallow clocks that tick loud enough to be heard outside their bodies, and no self-respecting pirate wears that kind of outfit lest he be mutinied two days into a voyage purely on principle.” He grinned and chuckled, proud of the smile on her lips. “You like my story. Admit it.”

“I already know it, bonehead.”

“But you enjoyed my rendition of it.”

Emma only shook her head and took a drink of wine.

“So what shall we do for the rest of the night?” Jones rubbed her calf softly.

“Pretend that you’re not here to annoy me?”

“So…roleplay?”

She kicked him, but he only laughed.

“Don’t worry,” he teased, squeezing her sock-covered foot. “I can be the princess, and you can rescue me—carry me off to our happy ending and whatnot.”

“How ‘bout you be a prisoner, and I’ll be the willing executioner?” She jerked her head at the dish rack. “I’ve got a cleaver right there that’s itching for your neck.”

Jones smirked. “Any excuse for you to manhandle me, love.”

“I will throw you out of this apartment. That manhandling enough for you?”

“I’m sure you can find more enjoyable pursuits with my body than simply throwing it.”

“I could throw stuff at it too—you want that instead?”

“Like your own body? Yes, that’d be nice.”

“Get—oh my God. Get out. Just…leave.”

Jones rubbed the back of her calf, pouting. “You’re no fun.”

“I think we’ve all had more than enough fun for tonight,” Emma said, still making no move to extract herself from his grip. She really should. But she didn’t.

“You can never have too much fun, darling,” he said. He snatched the glass out of her hand and took a sip before handing it back. “Your father would agree, I’m sure. He’s been smug all night because of how many times he’s made you laugh at my expense.”

She snorted. “That’s ‘cause you two nitwits formed this weird _bromance_ since the stampede _non-incident_.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“ _Stampede,_ Hook! _Stampede!_ ”

“ _Non-incident_ , Swan! _Non-incident!_ ”

He chuckled and lowered her legs to the floor, sliding off the bar stool. “All right fine.”

“Are you leaving now?” she asked, setting the glass on the counter.

He took her hand and pulled her off the stool. “One dance,” he said. “Just this one that’s playing.”

Emma stared at him, hand limp in his, and listened to the song. ( _“I just wanna know you better, know you better, know you better now.”_ ), and shook her head. “No.” _Hell_ no.

He released her hand, and for a moment, she was a little disappointed that he was so easily dissuaded.

And then he dropped to one knee, his hand over his heart, and her disappointment burned into confused embarrassment. “What are you do—”

“Lady Swan,” he stated in a clear, official voice. “Would you give me the honor of this dance?”

“You’re such an idiot.”

“Only for you, my lady.”

When she shook her head, failing to suppress her grin, he caught her hand as he straightened up and tugged her into the open space of the living room. He pushed her out, and she did a half-hearted spin with as much sarcastic flair as she could. Shaking his head and _tsk_ -ing, he pulled her back against his chest, carefully placing her left hand on his shoulder and her right on his hook.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” he asked, leading her around in a small circle, exaggeratedly slow so he could occasionally nudge her feet in the correct positions.

“Whatever.”

“Left, right, left, right, left,” he encouraged softly as she tried her best not to look down at her steps.

It would be a cold, cold day in hell before Emma would ever admit that he was a good teacher—and he was _drunk. What the hell?_

“Good, now you’ve got it.” He looked up and smirked at her, blue eyes bigger and brighter since they were six inches from her face.

“We’re not even following the rhythm of the song—”

“Shhh! Hear the swells, the thrumming of life coursing within, the—”

“Life that will be slowly seeping _out_ of you if this dance doesn’t end soon?”

Jones sighed, his cheerfulness evaporating as he continued to dance her around the living room, taking care to adjust her steps slightly as he increased their tempo. “How about we make a deal, love? For tonight only, we won’t be Hook and Swan. The ship’s in the harbor—”

“Half-broken and about to fall apart.”

He gave her a pointed look that immediately had her walls shuddering on impact of the attack. “And that badge’s got blood on it. We’re all still clinging to our broken pieces.” He reached out and brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “So let’s leave the ship where it is and the badge on the hall table. Right now, we’re just Killian and Emma.”

She froze, her brain taking its damn sweet time to let his words sink in. Then she blinked and shook her head out of the conversation, shifting to pull herself out of his grasp.

“Don’t— _Emma_ , don’t,” he said softly, holding onto her waist just a little tighter to keep her from ducking out. “I’m not asking for your bloody firstborn—or _second_ , actually. Apologies. I’m just…” He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “I’m just asking for us to be friends. I think we’ve… _shared enough experiences_ to warrant that title, at least.”

Emma ignored the reference to events in the past and sighed. She reluctantly put her hand back on his shoulder and her other on his hook. “You really have no concept of personal space, do you?”

He seemed to accept her non-sequitur as assent because he smiled and smoothly transitioned them back into their waltz. “I don’t hear you complaining, darling.”

She scowled at him. “This is me complaining now.”

“That’s a statement, not a complaint.”

“Semantics.”

Jones grinned mischievously, and she yelped when he suddenly dipped her. “Still not a complaint, love.” He yanked her back upright, and she glowered at him.

“Hook—”

_“Killian.”_

Emma huffed. _“Pirate.”_

Jones chortled and shook his head, waltzing her around the couch. “Your listening skills are horrendous. Say it with me—only three syllables: _Kill-ee-an._ Enunciate and… _go_!”

“I’m gonna kill you,” she deadpanned.

“Well, you got a third of it right,” Jones muttered. “Let’s work on the other two, shall we?”

“Hook—”

“It’s like you’re not even _trying_ , Emma.”

“Considering the fact that I’m actually _not_ trying at all—”

“Just like how you’re not even trying to get away from me in spite of your alleged complaints?” Jones grinned and winked when she closed her eyes and took a fortifying breath.

“I will not hesitate to punch you again. This time I can aim higher—for the throat or maybe even the nose.”

“Your words would have much better effect if you hadn’t warned me or even made any mention of hesitating to punch me,” Jones mused. “Punching me right off would—”

“Is this your convoluted way of wanting to start a fight? ‘Cause if that’s your intention, I can drive you to the bar or a dark alley—”

“And yet here you are—still dancing with me. Not even attempting to stop.”

“How can you even dance right now?!” Emma snapped impatiently. “Ten minutes ago, you were slumped on the bar, and now you’re… _waltzing._ ”

He smirked. “Darling, you’re forgetting that I’m a _pirate_. I lived off rum for over three hundred years. I only get drunk when I want to.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient?” Emma smiled pleasantly; the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Drunk when Mary Margaret and Henry are out and about Storybrooke?”

“Utterly fortuitous, I’d say,” Jones replied, grinning widely. “Especially considering the fact that the rightful heir to the throne and her grandson both told me about how, er, _worried_ you were about how well I’d adapt to this world.”

Emma scowled. “Yeah, worried for the rest of the citizens of Storybrooke.”

“No, no, love. Let me quote young Master Mills: ‘She said she was worried you’d wind up falling down an elevator shaft or killing yourself with a staple gun,’” he said in a perfect American accent. “What _is_ a staple gun, by the way?”

“Something that you might actually manage to kill yourself with,” Emma grumbled.

“See? In no way did you mention anyone else but me,” he concluded smugly. “Admit it, love, you care about me—in a greater capacity or not.”

“I’m supposed to care. I’m the sheriff.”

“But you take it beyond the stipulations of a local sheriff, Emma,” he said. “I’ve seen you throughout the night. You’ve been more relaxed than I’ve seen you since we got back to town.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’m more relaxed because I’m _at home_?”

“It did occur to me, yes, but then I also remembered your mother mentioning how tense you were all the time.”

“Have you _seen_ me?” Emma scoffed. “I’m _always_ tense.”

He blinked, and she hated how much his blinks could say to her. “Not tonight, you weren’t.”

They lapsed into silence, Jones with a smug smile and Emma with a narrow-eyed glare.

“ _All I know is we said hello, so dust off your highest hopes. All I know I pouring rain and everything has changed. All I know is a newfound grace. All my days, I’ll know your face. All I know since yesterday is everything has changed.”_

Jones’s smirk widened. “I quite liked that song. Don’t you?”

She stomped on his foot.

He choked on a laugh and nearly doubled over, almost smacking his forehead against her chin. “Did I really deserve that? Honestly, darling, can’t a man like a song in this day and age?”

Emma just rolled her eyes again, and Jones grinned warmly, straightening back up.

“I’m going to spin you again, all right?” he warned before crossing his hand over to carefully twirl her.

This time, she humored the bastard and did her best. And when she was facing him again, she saw the huge grin on his face—one that made his eyes crinkle and his face light up—and decided that maybe dancing with him wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

So when the song changed again, she didn’t let go. Regardless of the unfamiliar-yet-foreboding melody. Regardless of the fact that she really shouldn’t be dancing with him. And when the drums began a slow tempo and the piano began a very familiar song, she had to add one more to the list: Regardless of how stupid and ridiculous and inappropriate said song was.

“Why’d you tell me about Gabe?” she asked, hoping conversation would drown out the inevitable lyrics. “And don’t even _think_ about deflecting again.”

He stepped closer, wrapping his right arm around her waist so her temple rested against his jaw and her left side was pressed close against his right. “Because a several months ago, when I first met Lady Mulan, she reminded me of Hylee, and while I was still passionate in my quest for revenge, a small part of me did not want to die like she. Neither did I want to die like Gabe, though fulfilling as his life seemed to have been.”

Emma swallowed.

She should let go.

She really should let go, push him away, and nudge him out the door. And maybe shoot the stereo ‘cause _damn_ this song.

Instead, she just kept dancing with him. Not out of any conscious decision—a conscious decision would be letting go of him. She kept dancing with him because she wanted to. She didn’t want to worry about what she _should_ be doing anymore—watching out for Rumplestiltskin’s shenanigans, worrying about what new fairytale villain would descend from storm clouds, or being the savior. She wanted to be able to dance with a man who liked her, who wanted to woo her, who wanted to be with her. She didn’t want to have to worry about what had happened, about what could happen.

For the last couple months they’d been back in Storybrooke, she’d wrestled with how to deal with Jones. He was annoyingly witty, surprisingly empathetic, occasionally crass, genuinely funny, sharp, kind, and easy to get along with in general. He was a good storyteller, a good dancer, an easygoing conversationalist. He was a pretty fantastic dinner guest, good with kids, and pretty handy in spite of the hook. He was loyal and dedicated. He was cunning and resourceful. He was a good man.

Trying to be friends with him was like trying to leave a beautifully-wrapped present under the tree as part of the decoration, never to open it.

Okay, sure she’d complain to hell and back about how infuriating he could be, but…she hadn’t kicked him out. She’d resisted his initial appearance that night, but she hadn’t _really_ sat there and told Mary Margaret that she wasn’t comfortable with him being there. She didn’t give him the cold shoulder. She talked to him and laughed with him and now, fucking look at her.

She was dancing with him. In very close proximity.

And if she was honest with herself, she probably wouldn’t kick him out. At most, she’d grudgingly chuck a pillow in his face and then lay out some sheets on the couch.

But the fact of the matter was that she was still holding onto him and pushing him away at the same time—holding him at arm’s length. And while she knew she was only screwing herself doing that, she also had to think about him. Because pirate or not, Killian Jones was a good guy. He deserved better than that.

“Are you all right, love?” he asked suddenly, his thumb rubbing circles on her back.

She swallowed and nodded, feeling his scruff rub against the side of her face.

“You’re thinking very loudly, you know.”

She cleared her throat and took a step back. “I’m thinking that it’s time for you to go home.”

The bright, warm expression on his face—one that he’d worn throughout their dance—fell. “Emma—”

“No, look, we both know what’s…going on here, okay?” she said, shoving her hands into her pockets and taking another step back. “Let’s just…nip it in the bud because—”

“Because what, darling?” he asked softly. He wasn’t angry, like she’d expected. He was just… _sadly contemplative_. There. That was an apt description if she’d ever thought of one. “If we both know what’s happening between us, tell me why we shouldn’t pursue it? Why should we… _nip it in the bud_?”

“Because I’m not ready to do that,” she said flatly. “I’m not ready to risk something like that again. And trust me, okay, you should be in the same boat because…my life is…” She chuckled ruefully, shoving her hands into deeper into her pockets. Which was a hell of a feat because they were some damn shallow pockets. “ _Ridiculous_. My life is _ridiculous_.”

“How?”

She blinked, her mouth falling open. “Would you like me to go through the list?!”

“Emma, you’re shrouded in fairytales, stories that children hope for—adventure, magic, love,” he said. “You’ve got the adventure and the magic. The only love you don’t shy away from is the one you share with your son, and while I hold that in the utmost respect, I think you deserve more. Your relationship with your parents is…tentative, but growing, I’ll give you that. But there’s still too much in the gap in spite of the bridges you’ve made. And now you’ve completely closed yourself off from a third kind of love, one that…I genuinely think we should all strive for, one we all deserve.”

“Hook—”

“Love is not a dangerous risk,” he said, stepping toward her and taking her hand. “It’s not something to be feared. It’s a force to be reckoned with, surely, but love— _true love_ —is nothing but a saving grace.”

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles—warm, calloused, and comforting. “But if you’re truly unready for it, I’m not here to push you. All I asked for was a dance, remember? I’m not making declarations or asking for your heart. When I said that I was in this for the long haul, I meant it. I won’t rush you or ask you to make decisions you’re not ready to make.

“But what I do ask is not for my own sake, but yours,” he said. “Don’t cut yourself off from what could be out of fear of losing it. That’s no way to live.”

Emma looked down at their hands and squeezed back. In reply, he brought it up to his lips, kissing her fingers, eyes locked on hers.

“Now, shall we finish our dance?”

“We already had the stipulated one, remember?” she muttered.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we should stop in the middle of the second. I’m one to see things through to the end, eh?” He smiled and pulled her back into position.

He tugged her back into a slow waltz, holding her closer than before. She didn’t resist.

_“Have I told you lately that I love you? Have I told you there’s no one above you. Fill my heart with gladness, take away my sadness. Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.”_

Emma snorted, smiling despite the gravity of their previous conversation. “You’re so off-key.”

“Shhh. I’m trying to harmonize. This transcends your rudimentary knowledge of music.”

She chortled. “I should give you props for managing to remember the lyrics.”

“Why would I need props? I’m not acting it out.”

She laughed. “It’s, uh, a—I mean to say, I’m… _praising_ you for remembering the lyrics.”

“Ah,” he muttered into her hair. “Atrocious language you’ve all got. Anyway, it’s not really a testament to my memory. It’s only been repeated four times, love.”

She felt him grin when she only shook her head and rested her cheek on his shoulder. She felt it widen when she didn’t move to pull away again.

She’d bring out the pretty pink-flowered sheets for him later.

_“Ease my troubles, that’s what you do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So…I may or may not have used Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran’s “Everything Has Changed” somewheres up there. And I might admit to using Matt Acheson’s version of “Have I Told You Lately”...


	3. The Mother and the Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My point of contention with this show is how to deal with Mary Margaret. Not because of her characterization, but how to deal with her name. I have to make some sort of conscious decision as to whether or not and why I should call her “Mary Margaret” or “Snow White.” I mean, David’s name was actually David, same with Regina, but for the love of God, what are we supposed to call the rest of these people now? Grumpy or Leroy? Archie or Jiminy?  
> In the previous chapter, Emma referred to her as “Mary Margaret.” My rationale for this was because that’s how Emma met her and that’s what’s gonna stick because reconciling this woman with being her mother and being Snow White herself is kind of hard enough.  
> In this chapter, I’m gonna stick with “Snow” because 1) that’s her real, given name and 2) Mary Margaret is a long name that I frankly don’t believe is worth the time and effort in the face of reason number 1. Let’s be real, guys, according to my optometrist, I’m a partial-blinker. I’m literally too lazy to fully blink. That should say a lot about who I am.  
> I’m fairly sure no amount of apologies will make up for my absence and inadequacies concerning this fic. If it’s any excuse, I was studying abroad in Greece this past spring. And then I came back to my fall semester of my senior year in college, and I had to write a full screenplay, figure out a thesis, write said thesis’s prospectus, another research paper, and a bevy of short stories. So. Yeah. I had some serious registration regrets by the end of the semester.  
> Also, mad props if you just read all of that. Thanks for putting up with my incessant rambling.   
> One more thing: This was started before any of Killian’s backstory was revealed, and so great liberties will be taken with certain canon stories.   
> So without further ado, let me not keep you from this chapter any longer. 

**The Mother and The Man**

* * *

The early pink-purple haze of first light slanted through the half-open curtains of the windows of Mary Margaret’s apartment. Quiet and still, it was empty until with a little bit of resistance and a prolonged creak, the front door swung open, and Snow helped Jones limp inside. Exhausted, bruised, and just a little bloody, the consensus was at least relief that the latest ordeal was resolved. She deposited him on the barstool and walked around the island to grab a few icepacks from the freezer.

Henry was safely tucked away with Granny and Ruby. Emma and David were still at the station, tying up loose ends, leaving Snow to escort Jones back to the apartment. Unfortunately for the good captain, he’d drawn the short stick and played diversion, so he was the one being thrown left and right, up and down. By the end of it all, he’d refused to get up from where he was groaning on the floor. Only the promise of food, ice, and rest had him relenting and accepting David’s and Emma’s hands to pull him up.

He accepted the icepacks Snow offered, holding one against his head and the other on his knee. She fished out the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink and thumped it on the counter, making him flinch.

“Erm—”

She pointed at the long gash across his eyebrow. “That needs tending.”

Jones watched warily as Snow fiddled around with the contents of the kit. “Shouldn’t that be the good _Dr_. Frankenstein’s forte? What with him being in the medical field and whatnot?”

“I was on the run for years, Captain,” said Snow, benevolent smile intact. She pulled out a sachet of alcohol swabs and a packet of gauze. “I know how to patch up simple injuries.” She eyed him pointedly. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

Jones snorted. “Of course not, Princess.”

Snow came around the counter, ripping open an alcohol swab sachet. “Then suck it up.” She pressed the soaked pad against his cut with no preamble.

Jones yelped. “What is that accursed—?!”

“It’s an alcohol swab! You’re gonna pour rum on a gaping gut wound but shriek over a little cotton pad?!”

Jones glared at her petulantly. “A warning would’ve been nice. At least if you’d approached me with a bottle of rum, I can bloody brace myself. That innocuous bit of—”

Snow pressed the pad against the gash again, cutting him off. She cleaned up his wound in an awkward, painful silence that she could tell Jones wished to fill with lame, stilted conversation, but every time he opened his mouth, she pressed on his gash a bit harder than necessary.

It wasn’t that Snow disliked him. It wasn’t that he did anything _wrong_. In fact, he’d been nothing but a great help, even managing to throw in a little humor to lighten the situation.

But the fact was that Emma hugged first her mother, then Charming, and then Jones, whom she held onto until she nudged him away with Snow to get some rest… That was the detail that was not only on the table, but rather took up the whole space.

*** * ***

She, Charming, and Henry had walked into the apartment that first night Jones came for dinner to find Emma laughing and nearly falling off her perch on one end of the coffee table that she and Jones had been straddling, a pile of familiar, red-backed deck of cards between them. Jones was pouting down at the sheer amount of cards fanned out in his hand and stacked in front of him.

“I reckon I’m holding half the deck,” he cried. “I don’t have enough hand!”

“And since a normal UNO deck is essentially double a normal set of cards you may as well call it quits,” wheezed Emma between laughs.

Jones looked up from his cards, eyes fixed on Emma’s face—her _smile­_ —and grinned back. “Never.”

Henry had promptly joined the two, always game for UNO. Jones had patted him on the back and slid off the table to sit on the floor. Emma waved at her parents, cheeks pink enough to show how much rum was left in the bottle beside her, and invited them to play too.

David had loped over and smacked Jones’s back with a bit more force than necessary before shaking his head. Snow, also declining, only watched as Emma hopped down to the floor as well and began re-dealing the deck, smiling softly when Henry began relaying the plot of the movie. It’d been a sight that made Snow bite her lip to keep from grinning.

So when she’d walked out of the hallway the next morning, the grin came out in full force. With Jones camped out on the couch and Emma’s hangover to cope with, it was certainly going to be an interesting morning. When Snow stepped out into the living room, the “interesting morning” theory she had was reaffirmed— _carved into stone._

Back when Snow was still wholly Mary Margaret Blanchard, the bachelorette schoolteacher, she would’ve seen the sight, grinned, tiptoed to the kitchen, did her business quietly, and then retreated to the bedroom.

But now she was no longer wholly Mary Margaret Blanchard, the bachelorette schoolteacher who lived, conscious of a very empty space in her heart that was only slightly illuminated by the faint hazard lights of hope. She was Snow White in all her person, with twenty-eight years’ worth of Mary Margaret’s loneliness and confusion. She was the scorned princess who carried a daughter to term, spending the entire time worrying about more than any expectant mother should be worrying about.

So instead of retreating to the bedroom and back into Charming’s arms, Snow could only stand there, bottom lip caught between her teeth and her wedding ring twirling ‘round and ‘round her finger.

She was happy to see her daughter smiling and getting along with the pirate captain—of course she was. Jones had proven himself to be a truly honorable man time and time again. Emma had let down enough of her walls to play a simple game and laugh with him, and Snow knew that was a significant step in their relationship.

David had his qualms—typical, fatherly quibble—but ultimately, it was his friendship with Jones that had been a major factor in why the man had been in the apartment that night. Snow, on the other hand, had no such misgivings. She trusted her eyes and instincts, and both told her exactly who Jones was, how he felt about Emma, and how he would treat her.

But that would hardly stifle the motherly instincts that had her remaining where she’d stood, twirling her ring over and over and worrying the inside of her cheek between her teeth. She was torn between approaching and departing—both being valid reactions. She put one foot forward and then pulled it back before putting one foot back and pulling it forward. It was a serious dilemma.

Jones had lain on his side on the edge of the couch, his back to Snow. His presence wasn’t surprising, as Snow herself had been the one to hand Emma the specifically-requested flowery-pink sheets for him to use. What had caused Snow’s eyebrows to shoot up was the arm slung around his waist and the pajama-and-sock-clad leg between his. Emma had lain between the back of the couch and the man who cradled her in his arms. Her head rested on his left arm, hook hanging safely over the pillow and the arm of the sofa.

For a good quarter-second, Snow had seriously considered going back for Charming. As much as he loved her husband, she loved screwing with him almost as much (literally, figuratively—honestly, her time on the run didn’t do her sense of propriety many favors). She was well-aware of her husband’s friendship with Jones, forged in the murky depths of the Rabbit Hole, so she was gleefully anxious about his any and every reaction to Jones’s relationship with Emma.

But as she’d watched Killian Jones’s right arm move up—not the stretch but to reach for Emma’s face—Snow rethought going back for Charming and just continued to stand there, watching. Jones brushed Emma’s hair back from her face, tucking a few stray blonde locks behind her ear, thumb ghosting over her cheek. She couldn’t see his face, but the reverence with which he touched her daughter was enough to have Snow biting her lip again.

Jones’s index and middle fingers had traced the line of Emma’s eyebrow, sliding down to her cheekbone—a gesture that had cemented Snow’s decision.

*** * ***

Snow took better care with her bedside manner as she finished cleaning up the gash and applying ointment. When she pulled the gauze out of the packet, however, it turned out to be a little too big. Instead of using scissors to cut it, she pulled out the wide-blade cutting knife from the wooden stand.

To his credit, Jones didn’t flinch, but his eyes never left the blade as Snow made her way back to him. “You’re not about to hack me with that, are you?” he asked calmly.

Snow scoffed. “I just finished cleaning your cut. Why would I go through the effort?”

He visibly relaxed but tensed when she opened her mouth again.

“Besides, Charming’s called dibs on the knives. I’d use the forks.”

Jones frowned, leaning back as she slashed the gauze for a more appropriate size. “Not even the butter knives? Or the steak knives?”

“Knives only have one point,” answered Snow, flipping the knife before setting it back on the counter and pulling out the medical tape. “Forks have _three_.”

Jones blanched, and Snow very nearly cracked. She managed to hold it together as she adjusted the gauze onto his face and taped it in place. Snow’s expressionless stare pinned the captain down where he sat. After the appropriate amount of even more awkward, painful silence, Snow let her smile slip out just a bit so her tiny pleasant smirk had Jones squirming—something he didn’t do even under her previous, stony stare.

He cleared his throat and stood up, wobbling dangerously. “Well, thank you for your medical help, Princess, but I suppose I should be going.”

Snow rolled her eyes and pushed him back onto the barstool and shoved the icepack back into his hand. “So you can keel over in the middle of the street like last time? I don’t think so. You’re going to stay here and eat and rest.”

“Trust me, Princess, I’ve been through worse scrapes—”

Jones tried to stand again, but she pushed him back down. “That _we_ weren’t here for. Like it or not, we’re not your crew; you can’t boss me around.”

“And you’re not technically my princess, so the same goes for you.”

“No,” said Snow, “but you are in _my_ house and in _my_ town.” She pressed the icepack into his hand and lifted hand, arm, and icepack back to his head. “And considering your intentions toward my daughter, it would _behoove_ you to listen to me.” She walked around the island again to pull out breakfast fixings. “Besides, we may not be ruler and subject or captain and crew, but we are _friends_ , aren’t we?”

Jones’s lips curled up slightly. “Aye.”

“Then let us take care of you,” said Snow, turning her back on him, switching on the stove, and setting the pan on the stove with a soft _clang_ of finality.

Jones settled back into the barstool, wincing as he adjusted his injured leg. “I know I’ll regret bringing this up, but aren’t you going to interrogate me about my aforementioned intentions toward Emma?”

Snow cracked a few eggs with a little more force than necessary, relishing in the squeak of the barstool that signaled Jones uncomfortable shifting. She wasn’t going to call Charming—not even to watch him get huffy about Emma’s honor/virtue/etc. It was _her_ turn with Captain Jones.

“Do you want me to?” she asked, turning on the coffee maker.

“Is that rhetorical?”

“No.”

“Well, no, of course.” Jones sighed. “I’d rather not be interrogated, but I’d also rather not have the threat of it hanging over my head.”

Snow kept her face blank even though her back was to him. She pushed the sunny side up eggs along the surface of the skillet. “Did Emma tell you about Neal—or rather, Baelfire?”

“Apart from the fact that they did have a past and that he’s Henry’s father, no,” he answered. “I didn’t think asking for specifics would be well-received.”

“Pinocchio told him Emma came from the Enchanted Forest, that he needed to leave her to fulfill her destiny as a savior.”

“Pardon?”

“He was traumatized by his father’s betrayal, so Neal decided to sever ties completely, unwilling to have one more thing to do with magic,” continued Snow. She glanced over her should to see gauge Jones’s reaction; his jaw clenched and the icepack in his hand crunched a bit. “It’s not an excuse for what he did, though.”

“So he left her?”

“He let her be caught by the police with stolen items, which imprisoned her for a year. During her time in the penitentiary, she gave birth to Henry and chose to give him up for adoption because she felt in no way competent enough to be a mother, not because of her skills, but because of her circumstances.”

Jones gritted his teeth together, his jaw twitching. “He didn’t even leave her anything to help her?”

“He left the car—the yellow Beatle that she still drives around,” said Snow. “He didn’t know about the pregnancy, so he didn’t leave her anything else.”

Jones took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled harshly. “Why’ve you told me this?”

She slid the eggs off the pan and onto a plate. “Because Emma would not be the woman she is today without the trials she endured. While I absolutely _hate_ that she had to endure anything at all, I refuse to belittle the strength she built through those experiences.” She threw a few sausage links onto the pan. “But now that I’m here, I refuse to let her suffer needlessly. Do you understand?”

“I won’t leave her.”

Snow turned and met the pirate captain’s unwavering sea-blue gaze. “The running theme in Emma’s life is abandonment, so pardon me if I don’t take your words seriously.”

“I made the mistake of leaving her once, if you can remember, Princess, and I learned my lesson. I’ll be damned if I make the same mistake twice.”

“Trust me,” said Snow, turning back to the sausages. “You _will_ be damned.”

“All I have is my word, so I’ve no choice but to carry it with honor,” insisted Jones.

“You’re a _pirate_. Forgive me for not putting much stock in that statement.”

Jones scoffed. “I’m not that bloody ponce Jack Spa—pardon me, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. He’s the one to fear in regards to vernacular. He’ll talk you straight into a noose. Ask your husband.” He hopped up and used the counter to support himself as he hobbled along. “Let me help, please, I don’t want to be any more useless than I was earlier.”

Snow shooed him away from the stove. “You don’t have enough hands free. I’ll let you stir the pancake batter, but let me finish cooking your food first. I’ll set you up.”

“Are you going to put blueberries in it again or the chocolate?”

Snow glanced up at him as he peered into the pantry. “You pick.”

He didn’t hesitate. Jones switched arms, holding up the icepack to his forehead with his hook to pick up the packet of chocolate chips. “Emma likes these better.”

“Then chocolate chips it is,” said Snow, tilting the pan into the plate again. She fished out a fork and handed him the plate. “Eat first, and I’ll get all the ingredients together for the batter.”

“Thank you,” he sighed before nodding and digging into the meal.

She let him eat in relative peace for four bites, relishing his awkward, stilted atmosphere as she pulled out the flour and thumped it on the countertop. “How’d you become a pirate?”

Jones froze. His expression froze and then fell. He set down his fork and eyed the knife that Snow used to slice open the top of the new bag.

He swallowed his mouthful and cleared his throat. “That’s a long story.”

“I have nothing but time,” said Snow. She brought out the rest of the ingredients for the pancake batter and handed him the spatula. “If you even have the inkling to take Emma out on a date or hold her hand in public, I need to know more about you. And since you’re not in any government database, I can’t exactly do a simple background check on you.”

He blinked as she cracked an egg on the side of the bowl.

“We’re gonna do this old school,” continued Snow. “You’ve already read Henry’s storybook, so you know all of my history. Time to return the favor.”

Jones shot her an incredulous look, readjusting the icepack on his head. “You want me to tell you my bloody fairytale, Princess?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Snow, cracking another egg. “Tell me a story.”

“I’ve not had nearly enough alcohol for this.”

“You had an alcohol swab—that should count for something.”

“It doesn’t.” Jones sighed and watched as Snow doled out cups of flour into the bowl. “Very well. Once upon a time, a young lass yearned for more from her world—more than it could give her. So she left it.”

Snow set down the cup with indignant incredulity. “How have you _not_ won any awards for your storytelling abilities? You should write Henry’s next storybook.”

“Do you want me to tell the story or not?!” snapped Jones. “You and your daughter. Always with the commentary.”

“I’m sorry—all right, please continue.”

Jones eyed her hesitantly before restarting. “A deal with a witch earned her three shells—one for every sunset. Shells in hand, the lass emerged from the ocean, and her silvery tail smoothed into legs that brought her onto the warm sand. She had three days to discover this whole new world, dry and hot and vibrant as it was, before she had to return to her domain, to her sea. Should she step one toe into the blue-green depths, however, the deal would be broken, the shells revoked, and she would return to the fathoms below, a siren for the rest of her life once again.”

Snow frowned as she added all of the necessary ingredients and pushed the bowl closer to Jones, and he began to stir. The story sounded vaguely familiar, but he had no reason to recount something straight from Henry’s storybook.

“Thus, as any curious young lass with a deadline would do, she explored,” he continued. “She ran through the streets, a loon having the time of her life. as the sun flew across the sky, trailing the moon and stars behind it, she followed the music, the voices, the lights, and then finally to the fireflies to the edge of a cliff overlooking the very ocean from whence she came. It was there that she met the man.

“Now, that’s not to say she didn’t talk with any of the townspeople—oh, she _certainly_ interacted with people, aggrieved as they were when she asked them barrages of strange questions. More than once, someone inquired after her health. But this new someone was too preoccupied to worry of her health or raise a brow over her peculiarities. He merely looked out over the midnight waves and said, _‘Hello.’_ She responded, _‘Good evening,_ ’ and sat beside him.

“ _‘What are you doing?’_ she asked after a few minutes’ time. she didn’t know much about human customs yet, after all. They could stare into the seas for hours at a time as part of their belief system.

“After a moment of pondering the audacity of this girl, the man decided to answer her, as her bluntness was as fresh as the sea breeze blowing around them. ‘ _I’m thinking.’_

“ _‘Of what?’_

“ _‘Of what it’d be like to be free—of duties and responsibilities and…the shackles of the future, I suppose._ ’

“ _‘Are you…plotting your escape then?’_

“He chuckled. _‘Yes. You can say that.’_

“ _‘What’s the plan?’_

“He peered out over his knees and pointed at the ocean below, waves crashing and foaming against the rocks. Shrugging, he motioned downward, and she leaned over in confusion before it finally dawned on her.

“ _‘The ocean?’_ she asked, laughing. _‘Your idea of freedom is the ocean? That’s absurd.’_

“ _‘Why? You’re free-floating, not weighed down by anything. You’re free to go anywhere, not hindered by anything. And most of all, it’s an entirely different world, and you’re free to be whomever you want to be.’_

“ _‘Oh, really? What about the necessity of breathing and the danger of various creatures that could swim up and take a bite out of you? Don’t forget the fact it’s naught but blue down there—endless, fathomless blue. Everywhere you turn, it’s the same.’_ Glaring, she gestured out to the black water reflecting the ice-white moon. _‘There are different fish, sure, but it’s all just water and rocks and sand. You’re lost in a world that looks exactly the same as everywhere else. You’re not free to be whomever you want; you’ve simply no identity at all.’_

“He finally tore his eyes from the ocean to look at this girl—this strange girl who vehemently preached against the beauty of the ocean and seemed completely at ease talking to strangers sitting on the edges of cliffs, this utterly beautiful girl with long, auburn hair and eyes like sunshine through a canopy of leaves, who apparently wasn’t done speaking.

“ _‘I don’t understand you people at all,’_ she huffed. _‘You sigh and moan about your lives, wishing you could be worlds away when you don’t seem to realize the beauty of the world around you now—different lands with different people, different colors, different food. You can swim in the ocean, run across fields, climb mountains, and try to touch the sky. You have so many languages, customs, and music. Why would you want to give up this world for a new one when you don’t yet know what lies beyond your horizon.’_

“Much to the siren’s displeasure, however, her companion wasn’t awed or even convinced. To prove her point, then, she grabbed his hand and dragged him off that cliff and back into the town proper to show him life through her eyes. She force fed him food, described every conceivable color, and pulled him along with the rest of the dancing masses and shoved him onto the stage with the band. The lass literally and figuratively pulled him from the edge. For two days, she explored life on the mainland, and it took him those same two days to find a new reason to live.”

Jones finished stirring the batter and pushed it to Snow.

“Is that it?” she asked. “Is that _the end_? Happily ever after?”

“No!” cried Jones. “Bloody woman—let me have a minute’s respite, eh?”

Snow took the bowl with one hand and held up the other in deference. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, smirking. “Please, by all means.” She started up the stove again and pulled out another pan.

He hopped off the stool and picked up the silicone turner spatula. “You pour; I’ll flip.”

“I can—”

“I’m sure you can, Princess, but I’ve been flipping cakes for longer than you and your parents have ruled. I can do it, and I’d rather keep my hands busy,” he said. “Pour please.”

She shrugged and poured out a dollop of batter as he leaned his hip against the edge of the counter.

“They fell in love,” continued Jones. “Cliché as it might have been, it’s a cliché because it _works_. She pulled him off the cliff and sent them both tumbling off a different one, and it was sweet and beautiful and all-too brief. The siren’s three days expired, her shells gone. It was time for her to return to the sea, but the man was in no way willing to let her go. Before the lass could say her farewells, her lover made a deal with the sorceress to keep her onshore, and she agreed—ten years more for his soul.

“So when siren returned to the waves, her fins did not.

“ _‘The sorceress took pity on you. She saw our love and decided to let you stay,’_ he told her, leading her back out onto the dry sand. _‘We can be together. You don’t need to go back out there. Stay…with me.’_

“And so she did. They married, and had two children. It was the happily ever after she’d wished for and the life he never thought he’d achieve.”

He flipped the pancake and tapped the edge of the pan. Snow could only frown at him.

“Ten years,” she breathed. “They only had ten years, and he never told her? What about their kids?”

“For ten years, everything was beautiful—painful, difficult, and had its fair share of tears, but it was pristinely human and meaningful. But as all things do, it came to an end. The sorceress rose from the fathomless depths to claim her dues—the siren and her lover’s soul. In order to protect her children, the siren pushed her husband to escape the sorceress and she went willingly.

“However, the lad could only run so far and so long with his children. On a ship in the middle of the ocean, the sorceress found them. She capsized the ship and tried to drown his children until he finally agreed to adhere to the stipulations of his deal, and even when he agreed to go, she refused to bring his children to shore. Only through the intervention of other mermaids were the children rescued.”

“What happened to the children after that?” asked Snow.

“They became orphans and did their best growing up, living with whatever stupidity the cosmos decided they could handle, regardless of whether or not they survived it,” he said plainly, sliding the pancake onto an awaiting platter. “The end.”

Snow watched him pointedly as she poured out more of the batter. For a while, she didn’t say anything. They made eight pancakes in a semi-awkward silence as questions brewed in Snow’s mind and Jones attempted to exude an air of taciturnity.

“You and Liam,” said Snow. “You were their children.”

Jones smiled tightly. “Is your background check complete?”

“Have you seen them since?” she asked. “Your parents?”

“My father’s busy in the underworld and my mother is who-knows-where,” said Jones. “Three hundred years, and I have yet to see either of them. I was three bloody years old, and I can’t remember their faces.”

Snow nodded understandingly as he flipped the pancake. “The son of Davy Jones and Calypso, making breakfast in my kitchen and courting my daughter.”

Jones winced. “Aye.”

“But how did that push you to become a pirate?” asked Snow. “I thought you and Liam were naval officers.”

“We chose to uphold the few moral lessons our parents taught us and enlisted,” explained Jones. “But our king used us dishonorably. He sent us on a chase for a poisonous plant that killed my brother, and I was loathe to sail under a vengeful bastard’s colors. The crew and I mutinied, but we fulfilled our duties.”

Snow frowned at the dark expression that took over his face. “What did you do?”

He smirked. “I turned to my crew and said, _‘No honor in an unfinished task after all, eh, gents?’_ We sent him his bloody plant in a beautiful bouquet. He was dead in minutes.”

Snow stiffened. “You killed the king?”

Jones lifted his chin slightly. “He killed my brother.”

Snow cleared her throat and shook her head, chuckling ruefully. “Pirate.”

“Aye,” said Jones, nodding. “I am. But one who keeps his word. I won’t leave her.”

“Because you know what it’s like to be abandoned,” said Snow. “Even if it was done with the best intentions or because there was no other choice.”

Jones chuckled. “Aye, but mostly because the woman is inescapable in more ways than one.” He met Snow’s eyes. “I couldn’t leave her even I wanted to.”

Snow finally grinned. “Got that tenacity from your father?”

Jones glared at her.

* * *

Snow watched from the kitchen as Jones limped over and sat at the dining table, in the seat next to Emma, sliding a full plate of food in front of her.

“Thank you,” said Emma as she grabbed a fork and dug in.

Jones smiled and slung his over the back of Emma’s chair. “Anytime, love.”

“What’s the verdict for Operation Loch Ness?”

Snow glanced to her right and wrapped an arm around Henry’s shoulders. “He’s all right.”

“What’d he say that convinced you?” asked Henry.

“He told me he was the son of Davy Jones and Calypso.”

“Wait, what? He’s the—the squid-face with the locker and the crabs and the—what—I can’t—Grandma, how—”

Snow pointed at herself, smiling. “Snow White and Prince Charming, and you’re afraid that your mom’s new boyfriend is the product of a marine-centric legend?” Snow kissed his temple and ruffled his hair. “I’m not exactly shopping for wedding centerpieces, of course, but just looking at them, I can’t help but hope, you know?”

“Yeah.” Henry leaned his head against Snow’s shoulder and smiled a bit at the two of them sitting at the table. “I want her to be happy. I want her to have her happy ending, and I want to know that Killian’s gonna be able to be the one to walk down that road with her.”

“We’ll just have to watch and see.”

“Should I take my turn too or do you think that’s not necessary anymore?”

“Oh, _definitely_.”

“Sweet.”


	4. The Boy and the Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonders of not having homework to make me prioritize. This and the previous chapter have been long overdue. One more to go, and then we’re done, guys.

**The Boy and the Man**

* * *

“Run. Run.  _Run. Run. Run!_ ”

“I know! I know!”

“Turn—turn there!”

Henry sprinted down the street at Killian’s heels, fireballs sailing after them as they turned the corner and ran into Granny’s Diner. Killian slammed the door shut, and Henry rushed to barricade it, dragging a chair to shove under the knob. The diner was already in shambles with condiments all over the floor, utensils dotting their patterns, chairs and tables overturned.

The fourteen-year-old scoured the room for anything useful, but apart from shoving tables up against the door, the diner wasn’t gonna serve them much as a stronghold.

Killian whistled low. “This won’t hold for lo—”

A volley of fireballs hurtled through, shattering the glass of the front door and forcing Henry and Killian to dodge, leaping away from each other. Killian ducked behind the counter while Henry hid under the booth table, banging his forehead against the metal pole in frustration.

“Bloody hell!” screeched Killian from behind the counter.

“That didn’t hold _at all_ ,” groused Henry, rubbing his forehead and taking a deep breath to sustain his depressed sigh.

“Thank you, Master Mills, now for some _helpful_ information?!”

Henry scowled briefly and craned his neck to peer around the booth seat only to heave another sigh. “She’s just gonna set the building on fire—we gotta get outta here.”

“How?!” cried Killian. “If we make a run for it, we’ll be roasted alive!”

“Which will it be then?” demanded Henry. “Do you wanna burn _with_ the building or burn _in_ building?”

“Aaaagh, bloody hell,” growled Killian. “I promised your mother that I’d protect you at all costs, so you burning in any way is out of the bloody question.” Henry rolled his eyes, but he heard some shuffling and tinkling from behind the counter and then: _“Oh, fuck me.”_

If they weren’t currently in their situation, Henry would’ve laughed. “What?!”

“Erm, don’t tell your mother.”

“What are you doing?” asked Henry, cringing back as a fireball slammed into the floor right in front of him. “Killian?! What are you gonna do?!”

“Calm down, I’m not bloody committing suicide,” said Killian. “Just gonna…fight fire with a bit of fire.”

Henry groaned and pressed his forehead against the metal pole. “You said me burning in any way was unacceptable, and yet this is your brilliant idea.”

“Run when I stand, Henry!”

Henry groaned, shaking his head.

“Run when I stand!” he screeched again.

“All right!”

Henry kept his eyes fixed on the bar, and as soon as Killian’s dark head shot up, followed by a liquor bottle stuffed with a flaming cloth. He blanched.

“Oi! You dumbfuck! Over here!” And Killian chucked the bottle through the window glass.

Henry, in a move he learned from movies and TV shows, threw himself out from under the table, planted his foot on an upright chair, and launched himself straight over the counter. He nearly smacked into the glass shelves before Killian caught him and dragged him back down.

“Where the bloody hell did you learn to do that?!” hissed Killian. “You could’ve impaled yourself on the wall!”

Heart still racing in excitement, Henry shrugged sheepishly. “Miscalculated a little. I got over here, though, didn’t I?”

“Trust me, mate, as someone whose face has spent an inordinate amount of quality time with the floor, you should take care to be more surefooted before you start to trapeze around town.” Killian looked around the corner and jerked back when another fireball hit the side of the counter inches from his head. “Why must there be a threat that puts the universe in jeopardy every bloody week?”

Henry chortled. “Didn’t you say it made boring life in a small town more interesting?” Henry reached up to grab a clean rag from the counter to press against the cut slicing down the side of Killian’s face. “Said it, uh, ‘builds character’ or something?”

“Thanks, mate—and, aye, it does build character,” said Killian. “When it gives you time for your cuts to become scars, not when it comes at such a high frequency that what doesn’t kill you only makes you weaker. Or in this case, it might actually _kill_ us.”

Henry sighed for the eight-thousandth time that day alone, but he nodded understandingly. He glanced in the general direction of the front door. “I know I should be proud that she was hero enough to be switched into being a villain, but…”

“For our sakes right now, it would behoove us all if she’d still been a little evil enough to be on our sides,” finished Killian. He handed Henry another open liquor bottle and a rag. “Emma trying to blast my arse back into Neverland was hard enough, but then it had to be combined with her mother trying to use my head as a pincushion and her father trying to slice me apart like Christmas ham.”

“I mean…he wasn’t _that_ happy about doing it, right?”

Killian handed him another bottle to stuff with a pointed look. “Who knew cursing the good to be evil and the evil to be good was what would tear this town apart better than anything else?”

Henry set aside another ready bottle. “Granny’s gonna kill us for using these like this.”

“She’ll have to get in line after your mum.”

An especially large fireball sailed through the broken door and slammed into the opposite wall, setting it on fire.

“Bloody fuckering hell.”

“I should start a swear jar for you—I’ll be rich.”

“I’m shooting fish in a barrel, boys,” called Regina. “I can do this all day or I can set the whole building on fire!”

“As if we didn’t already know,” grumbled Killian.

“What’s the plan?” asked Henry.

“There’s a supply closet in the hall in the back,” said Killian. “I’ll distract Mother Darling while you run and look for something useful.”

Henry grimaced. “And if I _don’t_ find anything useful?”

“Run out the back door and find that bloody grandfather of yours,” said Killian, pulling out the lighter again. “The not-evil one!”

“Killian—“

“Run when I stand.”

“Kill—“

_“Run when I stand, Henry.”_

“Oh, for the love of—”

Killian lurched to his feet again and chucked the lit cocktail back out just as Regina pelted another fireball. He managed to catch the edge of her pantsuit, and she missed him entirely. It was long enough for Henry dart out into the hallway, shielding himself with a tray.

“Would you look at that?!” Regina laugh-screeched. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh? Just like his father!”

Henry wasted no time, wrenching open the closet door and immediately spotting their saving grace like it was awash with golden light. He took a moment to shake his head at himself. He’d be indebted to Killian for the rest of his life for how many times the captain had saved his life in the past three days alone, but Killian’s vernacular was doing him no favors.

“Aye, he’s much like old Baelfire,” he heard Killian reply, followed by another smash of a Molotov cocktail. “He’s quick on his feet—”

An explosion marked Regina’s entrance to the diner, flinging furniture across the room just as Henry slammed the closet shut and pointed Granny’s spare crossbow.

“—and sharp with a bow.”

It’d been three days since the inception of the curse, so it was already well-established that it would take a _lot_ more than a crossbow bolt to bring down a sorceress like Regina, but it served its purpose. As the bolt hurtled toward Regina, she caught it—but not the cocktail Killian hurled at her feet. The fire licked up her pant leg again, but Killian tackled her to the floor before she could do anything about it. He punched her in the face hard enough to knock her out.

“Bloody good find, mate,” said Killian, grinning at Henry.

Henry lowered the crossbow and frowned at his mother worriedly. “What should we do with her?”

Killian picked himself up off the ground and patted the fire out on her pant leg. “Is there rope where you found that?”

“Yeah, a couple coils,” answered Henry.

“Good. I’ll have everything I need.”

The crossbow in Henry’s hands shot up again, and Killian slowly turned to face Snow, who stood just outside the door of the diner, bow raised.

“Ah-ah-ah-ah, Henry,” said Snow, arrow pointed straight at Killian’s face— _again_. “Lower it unless you want Captain Hook here to be the one falling. And I can assure you—he won’t get back up.”

“Killian?” called Henry.

“Aye?”

“Run when I stand?”

It was a testament to how on-edge but in-sync they’d been that an entire plan was exchanged in four words.

Snow glared at them, baffled, since Henry was already standing. But her glare disappeared when Killian suddenly dropped, giving Henry a clear shot of Snow. He fired the crossbow and nicked her cheek, but Snow was just as quick. She fired her own arrow, and Henry tried to dodge it. However, he didn’t move far or fast enough.

“No!” roared Killian.

His grandmother’s arrow slammed into his chest so hard that he was breathless instead of in pain—even though the blood was already spreading across his shirt.

He looked up just in time to see Killian grab a chair and _heave it_ at Snow, who tried to duck. It clipped her shoulder, sending her reeling back onto the sidewalk, crying out in pain.

Henry took a deep, unsteady breath as he lowered the crossbow and leaned back against the wall, staring down at the arrow in his chest. Sometimes it _really_ blowed having such a danger-prone family.

“Henry, Henry, Henry—mate—” Killian tore through the mess of tables and chairs to grab Henry before he could slump to the floor. “You’re all right, mate. It’s fine.”

“Seriously?!” gasped Henry. “There’s an _arrow_.”

“Aye, mate, but it’s not in your _heart_ , which is what counts,” said Killian breathlessly, smiling in relief. “At least you’re not on fire, right?”

“Oh, _shut up_.”

Killian chuckled but focused on the wound again. “I can’t take it out here, though—we have to get you back to the paw—”

Henry leaned his head back against the wall with a _thunk_ just in time to see Snow, favoring the left shoulder that Killian managed to hit, sit up and pull a knife out of her belt.

“Killian!”

The pirate whirled around just as Henry tried to push him to the side, but the knife was already soaring through the air, heading straight for Killian’s face. Too late to be shoved aside, the pirate had seen and accepted the inevitability.

But there was no need.

The knife halted in midair, seized by a violet shimmer before dropping onto the ground with a clatter, only a foot from Killian’s forehead.

The heart attack that’d been only moments from hitting him faded in Henry’s chest as Mr. Gold strode into view. He threw a small cloth bag that collided against Snow’s head with a cloud of green dust that had her eyes rolling back into her head in unconsciousness. He spotted Henry and Killian, blanched, and ran the rest of the way into the diner, kicking aside debris before skidding to a stop on his knees beside his grandson.

“Took you long enough, Crocodile.”

Gold ignored him as he examined the arrow in Henry’s shoulder. “Fortunate that it’s not—”

“In my heart,” said Henry. “I know. Great. Can you _please_ just get it out?”

“Of course,” muttered Gold. He clamped one hand down on Henry’s shoulder and gripped the arrow with the other. “This is going to hurt.”

“God’s sake, man, can’t you just _magic_ it out?” asked Killian.

“I could,” answered Gold. “But considering what happened yesterday—” He broke off the tip of the arrow and wrenched it out without any preamble. “—consider this a bit of your punishment.”

“We thought you were on their side and had just been faking it all this time,” said Killian as Henry howled in pain.

“Didn’t I tell you to trust me?!” demanded Gold.

“That’s like asking a man to hide chest that they know is empty—bloody pointless,” said Killian, pressing a cloth over the gaping hole in Henry’s shoulder as the boy started banging his head against the wall to at least distract himself from the pain. “Mate, stop doing that.”

“Oh, stop, let me heal it,” said Gold.

“How’re we to know that you won’t just infect it or add some sort of curse to—”

“Do you know the alignments, Master Jones?” asked Gold, waving his hand and stitching Henry’s wound back together. “Lawful good, chaotic neutral, neutral evil?”

Killian rolled his eyes. “Aye. Good, neutral, and evil separated with varying degrees of lawfulness, neutrality, and chaos.”

“Lawful good, neutral good, chaotic good,” recited Henry.

Gold nodded. “And?”

“Lawful evil, neutral evil, and chaotic evil.”

“And between those two ends of the spectrum?”

Henry sighed and rotated his shoulder. “Lawful neutral, true neutral, and chaotic neutral.”

“Can you guess where I lay in that spectrum before the curse?”

“Chaotic neutral?” answered Henry.

Killian snorted. “I would have guessed chaotic _evil_ , but—”

“I like to dance along the spectrum, but if you continue pushing my buttons, you’ll certainly see me back at chaotic evil,” said Gold, glaring at Killian. “So if I was chaotic neutral, where would I be now?”

“Lawful neutral, “ huffed Killian. “So what? You don’t seem to have changed much apart from a slight degree more of a conscience.”

“Precisely—conscience enough to try and save you and this town,” said Gold. “Now, I’ve found our key to breaking this curse, and we’re going to need the most pristinely evil heart and the heart of gold.”

“So…you and Henry?”

“I am _not_ pristinely evil, Captain,” said Gold, rolling his eyes. “Who was so painfully _good_ before the curse? So good that embodying the opposite meant becoming terrifyingly evil?”

Killian immediately turned to look at Snow, still fast asleep on the sidewalk. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, is it?”

“Actually, it won’t be too bad,” said Gold, waving his hand at Killian’s hook. “Fetch me Snow White’s heart, will you?”

“This here, Henry, is history repeating itself,” sighed Killian as he pushed himself up to his feet, patting Henry’s knee.

“What are you gonna do with our hearts?” asked Henry as Killian walked away.

Gold pulled a small gold orb—slightly bigger than a Christmas ornament—out from his pocket and held it up. “I’m going to fuse your heart and your grandmother’s so that the repelling energy that builds from forcing the two together will power this orb and restore everyone to their…original allegiances.”

Henry grimaced. “We’re gonna get our hearts back, right?”

“Of course—all we need is the energy that is released when I force them together,” replied Gold. “Like magnets. I can pull them apart with no problem.”

Henry nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay, do we need to—”

Gold slammed his hand into Henry’s chest—no warning or preamble once again—and pulled out the heart, still glowing gold.

“You really like doing that whole ripping-off-the-Band-Aid thing, don’t you, Gramps?” asked Henry through gritted teeth.

“I may be on the other side of a certain line, Henry, but I’d still rather you not call me that.”

“Grand-stiltskin?”

“Not unless you don’t want your job at the shop anymore.”

“Grand-croc?”

“You have been spending entirely too much time with the pirate captain.”

“Oi!”

Gold rolled his eyes. “Speak of the devil…”

Killian sauntered back over, holding Snow’s black heart in his hand. “Is it supposed to be this small?”

Henry tilted his head and saw that the heart was, in fact, much smaller than any other he’d seen before. “Did it shrivel up because she’s evil?”

Killian stifled a snort, scrunching his face and making Henry chuckle, well-past slaphappy at this point.

Gold shook his head wearily, sighing, and leaning back on his haunches, eyeing Henry’s heart in his hand. “I forgot.”

“What?”

“Your maternal grandparents share one heart, Henry,” said Gold. “Snow White was forced to sacrifice David’s heart to instigate a curse, and in her efforts to save him, forced Regina to split her own heart to share with him.”

Killian’s expression fell. “Wait, you mean—”

“We need the whole heart,” said Gold, “so you’re going to need to fetch the other half from David.”

Killian looked like he was about to cry, and Henry couldn’t stop his laughs then. “I’m definitely going to lose my other hand.”

* * *

Killian Jones had survived three curses already—three bloody fucking curses—and he was loathe to die in the middle of the fourth, especially at the hands of the patriarch of the Charming family into which he’d worked so hard to ingratiate and integrate himself.

David had been his first foothold, and now he was putting himself in the man’s disturbingly evil hands to retrieve his bloody _heart_.

Why?

 _Why_ was he always the one to do shite like this?

He strode across the street, sighed, and began to howl. “Oi! Prince Charming! Won’t you come show your pansy-arse face out here or are you too afraid of wrinkles to expose it to the elements?!”

The doors to the library practically exploded open as Charming stormed out, twirling his sword in his hand and looking murderous. Emma strode out after him, hands already swirling with black mist.

“You really shouldn’t frown, mate,” said Killian, unsheathing his own cutlass. “Biggest source of wrinkles.”

“Don’t really care,” said Charming. “Wrinkles pale in comparison to the giant pain in my ass.”

“What, from sitting around so much?” asked Killian, crossing his feet over the other as he circled the two Charmings. “Sharpening a sword that’s only ever for display?”

“From _you!”_ roared Charming, rushing forward and slashing wildly.

Killian sidestepped the forceful swipe that could probably have hacked him in half and laughed. “Mate, by the end of this, you can trust that that the pain I’ll be causing you won’t just be on your arse.”

A dark shimmer of energy slammed into Killian from the side, sending him flying off to the side, landing on his shoulder painfully. “Bloody hell, love, playing dirty?”

Emma chuckled darkly, a ball of swirling black mist twirling in her open palm. “Your fault for not paying attention.”

He shoved himself back up to his feet, positioning himself so both Emma and Charming were in his vision. “Darling, you know I’m always paying attention to you.”

“Prove it!”

She threw the ball just as Charming surged forward with another vicious cut that Killian parried as he ducked Emma’s energy ball. Killian smirked, sliding his cutlass along Charming’s blade and spinning to ram his elbow into Charming’s face and blow a kiss to Emma.

“Told you, sweetheart, I’m nothing if not attentive.”

Emma snorted and blasted another wave of energy at him that he could only dodge by falling flat on the asphalt.

“Look at that,” laughed Charming, even in spite of the blood dripping from his nose. “At our feet, where you belong.”

Killian rolled his eyes and kicked Charming’s feet out from under him, sending the other man to the ground with a painful _thud._ “Look at you, mate, stooping to my level.”

And then he rolled out of the way as another invisible energy force slammed the ground where he’d been lying only moments before, leaving a cracked crater in the middle of the road.

“Sheriff, _honestly_ , this isn’t doing the town budget any favors,” said Killian, rolling to his feet.

“Fuck budgets,” growled Emma, throwing waves after waves of energy at him. “And fuck you.”

“You’re welcome to try, darling,” said Killian, smirking as he dodged every one of them before spinning to deflect another of Charming’s attacks.

It was a strange dance, two against one. While it may have seemed easy in theory, the practicality of trying not to be hit by friendly fire grew tedious for father and daughter as Killian kept drawing closer and closer to Emma, who was forced to dodge her father’s errant swings while the father himself was forced to fling himself away to keep from being thrown several feet by Emma’s blasts. 

However, as the fight continued, it became clear that a sorceress-in-training and a prince had _nothing_ on a three hundred year old pirate captain, the son of Calypso and Davy Jones. Though he didn’t have magical powers or a giant broadsword and three days’ worth of tutelage from an Arendelle princess, he had experience, which goes much further than the former two.

It was easy enough for him to dull down his skills for the sake of throwing the fight in Emma’s favor, the one time they fought with swords over a compass. He was also blinded by grief and rage when he lost his hand and love to the Crocodile all those years ago. It was easy as a whole to mask the extent of his capabilities to the townspeople who really didn’t _need_ to know how good he was with a sword…or a mace, staff, daggers, whip, pistol, cannon, or really anything else.

Above all, he knew the value of being underestimated, and he was going to play that game that for as long as he lived because it meant he would always have a card up his sleeve, the ace in the hole to protect himself—or in nowadays’ case, those he loved and cared for.

And because he was such a sad sack of shite, unwilling to hurt his best friend and love of his life, he pulled out one of his cards.

Charming was running on adrenaline, his own ingenuity, and the curse-wrought disdain for honor so that his swings were getting dirtier and more underhanded. Emma’s impatience and anger brewed, making her attacks sharper and stronger, which meant they manifested more visibly.

Killian spun, his feet barely touching the ground as he parried Charming’s attacks and dodged Emma’s. Though he was breathing as calmly as if he was taking a leisurely stroll around town, he was growing tired of their little tango.

Charming lunged, his sword point stabbing the air where Killian’s heart would have been had he not spun, his shoulder blades brushing the flat of Charming’s blade as he punched Charming in the face with the cupped guard of his cutlass and followed the direction of his swing to smash his elbow into Charming’s face as well. He continued to follow the force of his spinning to haul Charming in front to shield himself from the massive energy bolt Emma threw.

“David!” cried Emma.

Killian wasted no time. Distracted as she was, she didn’t see the stray chunk of asphalt that careened into the side of her head and knocked her out.

“Sorry, love.”

Not even bothering to sheathe his sword, Killian plunged his hook into Charming’s chest and pulled out the other half of Snow’s heart. He looked up in time to see the Crocodile and Henry jogging closer.

As they neared, both Henry and the Dark One looked fairly impressed.

“You look relatively unharmed,” said the Crocodile placidly.

Killian snorted, sheathing his sword and pressing a hand against his rib and developing a hobble. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Are you okay?” asked Henry, coming under Killian’s arm and wrapping his arm around the older man’s waist.

“It’s not myself I’m worried about, Master Mills,” said Killian. “How are you?”

“You know, _heartless_ , but Gramps fixed up my shoulder,” answered Henry. He glanced at his other unconscious mother. “Is she okay? Uh, are they _both_ okay?”

“Oh, of course. They’ll be up and antagonizing me again as soon as we get this counter-curse running,” answered Killian. “Speaking of which…”

The Dark One accepted the other half of Snow’s heart, and immediately connected it with its half. Henry handed over his own heart so Rumplestiltskin held one in each hand.

“Should we be bracing ourselves?” asked Killian.

And once again, without any preamble, Rumplestiltskin slammed the two hearts together—gold and black—sending Henry and Killian flying onto their backs with the force of the energy. It whirled around them, whipping branches and asphalt shards around in the air. Killian rolled so he shielded Henry from the debris as the Dark One funneled the gold-tinted energy into the Christmas ball.

“How much do you want to bet that he’s doing an entirely different spell?” muttered Killian in Henry’s ear.

“You’re gonna be betting ours and the entire town’s safety, so let’s not play that game,” chided Henry.

And suddenly it was all over. The gray gloom that suffused the town lifted so the sun shined down once more. Meters away, Emma stirred, groaning as she lifted her bloodied head.

“Mom!” cried Henry, scrambling out from Killian to crawl over to his mother and help her sit up. “Mom, it’s over.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” she muttered.

Henry jumped away as she retched. Killian continued the ruse, moaning as he pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the Dark One, who was separating Snow’s and Henry’s hearts. Killian immediately snatched Henry’s gold-glowing heart and exchanged sneers with the Dark One to make sure the equilibrium was restored. He stalked back to the boy, who was patting his mother’s back as she coughed and spat.

“‘Ello, gorgeous,” said Killian, winking at Emma, who only rolled her eyes and shook her head. He kneeled next to Henry and patted him on the back. “Gotta get this back where it belongs, mate.”

Henry grimaced. “All right, but be—”

Killian pushed it back in, making Henry gasp.

“—gentle,” he wheezed.

“Band-Aid, mate, right?”

Henry glowered at him. Killian grinned.

* * *

The diner was the only place whose doors were open (figuratively and literally speaking, since the glass and blinds had yet to be replaced, so people were quite _literally_ walking through the door) as the town initiated the early stages of rebuilding. Chairs and tables were righted, condiments refilled and back in their places, and the grill fired up. And it seemed that nearly the entire town had the same idea and were all congregated in the diner or outside on the patio tables. Killian had just walked through the door himself when the diner erupted with cheers.

“There he is!”

“Captain Hook!”

“He’s Killian now, numb nuts!”

“He likes it!”

“Shut up!”

The seven troglodytes had commandeered and stuffed themselves into a booth, already drunk and looking like they were just a few music notes shy of breaking out into song and dance. They’d tried to stumble over to Killian— _why_ , he’d rather not contemplate—but they were packed too tightly and were forced to merely wave and raise their drinks to him cheerily.

“The man of the hour,” said Ruby, kissing him on the cheek and handing him a mug of hot chocolate. “Just in time.”

“I thought you were getting changed,” said Granny, eyeing him disapprovingly.

Killian glanced down at his fresh black shirt, jacket, pants, and boots. “I did!”

The lady rolled her eyes, shook her head, and walked off, though he still caught the small smile that tickled her cheeks.

“Killian! Over here!”

He peered over the heads of half the bloody town to see Henry, waving his arm and grinning at him excitedly. He sidled his way through the people, still keeping up the charade with a slight limp that in no way marred his typical swagger.

Snow sat on Charming’s lap on one end of the bar—her shoulder back in its socket, a pretty dark purple bruise on his cheek, and their heart-halves back in their proper places. Snow smiled at him warmly. Charming rolled his eyes at Killian’s wink, but his irrepressible smile countered the bitter gesture.

Regina and Emma had icepacks pressed against their heads and a scotch in other hand, chuckling about something, which worried Killian slightly but not nearly enough to intervene. They’d built some sort of rapport during their time as the strongest villains of the town, and he preferred their strange alliance over them fighting.

The Dark One had his arm around Belle as she leaned against his shoulder, chatting with Archie, Aurora, and Phillip. He exchanged glances with Killian (never nods or any sort of genuinely courteous gesture), but the captain couldn’t stop the responding smile and nod when Belle grinned at him.

“Cheers, mate,” greeted Killian, toasting his mug to Henry’s when he was close enough. “How are you feeling? Shoulder still aching?”

“It’s all in my head—don’t worry about it,” said Henry, waving it off. “How’re you doing?”

“Ready for a drink,” answered Killian.

“Good thing you’ve got one in your hand,” said Henry.

Killian grinned, finally looking down at his mug and seeing the cinnamon dusting the fluffy white cream. He looked up and met the smiling eyes of the rest of Henry’s family.

“Don’t worry,” said Emma. “There’s Bailey’s in that.”

She winked at him, and his grin widened even more, already warmed by Emma’s smile alone, more than he could ever be by a cup of hot chocolate.

He cleared his throat. “So what am I just in time for?”

Loud clanging silenced the diner as Granny banged on a pot with a metal spoon. Henry stood on a chair, towering over the crowd, his mug in his hand.

“I propose a toast for the hero of Storybrooke,” he called, his voice commanding and authoritative already. He looked down and grinned at Killian. “Thank you for punching my grandfather—”

“Nine times!”

“—dislocating my grandmother’s arm, clocking my mom, throwing a chunk of the street at my other mom, saving my life so many times I’ve lost count, and for saving the entire town with your characteristic sass and relative good humor.”

Killian’s grin burned as a blush crept up from his neck and ears as he met the eyes of the people around him, who were all beaming at him proudly.

Henry raised his mug high. “To Captain Killian Jones!”

“To Captain Killian Jones!” echoed the others.

“Hear, hear!” chorused the dwarves.

“Hear!”

“Just _two_ , Dopey!”

“He deserves a third!”

They all drank to him, but Emma moved closer to kiss him on the cheek, overpowering the warmth of the hot chocolate that had settled in his stomach and in his chest. Emma’s warmth suffused his bloody bones.

“How’s the leg?” she asked quietly, keeping close so their conversation was discreet. “The leg that sustained _no injury_ whatsoever?”

Killian cleared his throat and took another sip of his chocolate. “Still _smarts_ a bit, love, but you know.”

She pinned him with a pointed look, but he met it straight-on, knowing that she already understood his strategy and willed her to never again mention it anymore. The smirk that’d been ghosting across her lips solidified as she nodded once and suddenly reached out to brush her finger against the tip of his nose. The electric current of her touch froze him in place, and when she pulled it back, he saw the bit of cream on her finger. And then she put it between her pink lips, tasting it, and Killian immediately turned away before he lost it.

“So that’s spiked?”

Trying to keep his eye from twitching, Killian turned back to the bar, where Henry sat, eyeing the mug in Killian’s hands.

“Just a tad,” answered Killian. “For taste. Your mum introduced it to me.”

Henry nodded as Killian took the barstool next to him. “So do you drink, like, _all_ the time?”

“Well, no,” answered Killian. “But when you spend so many years at sea, mate, alcohol becomes the only way to stay hydrated, so you tend to build up a tolerance and a bit of a soft spot for the taste.”

“So is rum your version of water?”

“Not quite, but it’s like you drinking that bubbly beverage that’s artificially colored.”

“Soda?”

“Aye. It’s like drinking soda instead of water—a matter of preference and tolerance.”

Henry nodded understandingly and took another sip from his mug, which Killian immediately mimicked. He could tell the tone of the conversation had taken a turn.

“So is all the black—“ Henry motioned to Killian’s general person. “—like the rum? A matter of preference?”

“Throughout the eons, my boy, black has always been and probably always will be the most slimming color,” sighed Killian.

Henry cocked his head to the side. “Are you calling yourself fat?”

Charming spat out whatever had been in his mouth, making Killian bristle. They were listening. They were bloody listening.

“If I was, I’d be lying then, wouldn’t I?” he asked in his most level tone. “Besides, blood isn’t as visible against black.”

They lapsed back into silence, though significantly more awkward.

“Though I’m not adverse to some colors,” said Killian, trying to ease the discomfort. “Reds, blues, greens…”

“Yellow?”

Killian winced. “Preferably not.”

“No yellows.” Henry nodded, taking another sip. “So you’re not a big fan of blonds?”

Killian choked and nearly upset his mug as he nearly hacked out a lung. “What?!” he croaked.

Henry met his gaze steadily, hazel eyes like steel.

Clearing his throat, Killian drummed his fingers against the counter, feeling the eyes of everyone in a five foot vicinity and doing his best to suppress the blush that was trying to catch fire across his skin.

“I’m not a fan of blonds as a whole,” he said. “Just of one blonde in particular—a very big fan.”

Henry was relentless, however—steel sharper and stronger than any sword Killian or Prince Charming could ever wield. “To what capacity?”

 _Bloody hell,_ thought Killian. “To any capacity she’ll have me—all across the spectrum, but preferably on the _forever_ side of aforementioned spectrum.”

Henry’s gaze practically _staked him_ in place, but the intensity was fading as the boy nodded and turned back to his drink. “Good answer.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Yeah.”

“So do you like the cinnamon with the hot chocolate?”

“Aye, a big fan.”

“Good, good.”

“I prefer it with the stick, though.”

“Same. How good is it with the Bailey’s?”

“Fairly good, actually. Adds a different level of flavor.”

“Can I try?”

“Ask your mothers.”


	5. The Sheriff and the Pirate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, guys. Couple more thousand words, and you’ll be through with me. I’ll be through with this. Good God. It’s been a long time.

**The Sheriff and the Captain**

* * *

“You two are the worst sober sisters.”

“Considering I’m not a bloody woman _or_ in any way related to you, that’s entirely understandable,” said Killian, grunting as he kicked open the front door, revealing the dim light of the mansion foyer.

“And we were _not-sober_ long before you,” added Emma.

“So why did you volunteer to drag my ass home?!” cried Regina, clamping her nails down on Killian and Emma’s shoulders where she hung between them as they carried her over the threshold.

“What is this alleged _volunteering_ business? You literally dug your claws into our shoulders and _ordered us_ to take you home,” said Killian, wincing. “As you continue to do now.” She may or may not have drawn blood; he wouldn’t be able to tell until later. “Made us bloody walk and everything.”

“Yeah, well, it was either you two idiots or the horny rabbits who were milliseconds from making out right then and there on a barstool,” said Regina. “Everyone else was just as drunk.”

Emma grimaced, and Killian snorted. The lower the level of golden liquid in Snow and Charming’s glasses got, the more they made eyes and whispered in each others’ ears and cuddled against each other. Even Henry did his best to respectfully get as far away from them as possible, going as far as to ask Granny if Snow and Charming could spend the night in one of the rooms upstairs since they were entirely too drunk to get home. He’d been one of the first to bow out, opting to go home to Mary Margaret’s apartment alone for some much-needed and yearned-for peace and quiet. He was the only one to walk out of Granny’s sober.

“Are we almost there yet?!” demanded Regina.

Killian leaned away from the grating noise of her screams. “Woman, we’re in your bloody foyer!”

Regina paused, throwing her back and blinking, slowly registering where she was. “Oh.”

Emma rolled her eyes and patted Regina’s back. “All right, all right—we’re gonna get you up to bed.”

“Oh, God,” groaned Regina, grimacing.

Killian yelped and ducked out from under Regina’s arm, holding her aloft. “If you’re going to vomit aim down!”

Regina moaned again. “No.” She eyed the structure in front of them. _“Stairs.”_

“You’ve suffered four curses now,” said Killian, rolling his eyes and hefting her against his shoulder again as they carefully began making their way up—Regina dragging her feet along, leaving her shoes behind as he and Emma did all the work. “You can make it up a flight of stairs.”

“More like _we’ve_ survived four curses, and now we have no choice to suffer another flight of stairs,” grumbled Emma. “You owe us so bad for this.”

“Oh, stop bitching,” snapped Regina. “You two can pick some rooms out and stay the night. I’ll make breakfast tomorrow or something.”

“Sorely tempting,” said Emma. “As long as you don’t make any apple pastries, I might take you up on that. My feet are dying.”

Regina groaned again. “ _I_ will be dying tomorrow morning.”

“Your fault _entirely_ , Madam Mayor,” said Killian. “Charming tried to cut you off, but you insisted—”

 _“I’m sober! I’m sober!”_ mocked Emma, chuckling.

“I _was_ sober!”

Killian barked out a laugh. “Not while you were saying it, Madam Mills.”

“Oh, both of you smug assholes, shut up,” grumbled Regina. “You’re both just as drunk as me.”

“I haven’t been as drunk as you in fifty years,” laughed Killian.

“I’m definitely drunk,” said Emma, “but definitely not on your level, Regina. You’re starting to muddle between the different types of drunks.”

“You’ve been vacillating between the angry drunk and the rowdy fun one,” said Killian. “I’m sure your neighbors enjoyed your jazzy rendition of the national anthem.”

“Hell yeah, they enjoyed it,” said Regina, surging off Killian and Emma’s shoulders to rush up two steps, turn around, throw her arms out, and belt, _“America! America! God shed his grace on thee—”_

“God shed his grace on _me_ ,” groaned Killian.

“ _Oh_ -kay, Regina, save those pipes for another time,” said Emma, rushing to grab Regina again.

“Bloody hell, woman, were you going to try and run through all the songs about this country?” grunted Killian as he assumed his position again.

Regina tried to salute but clipped Killian’s face instead. “Can’t say I’m not a patriotic bitch.”

Emma snorted. “We’re almost there. Just a few more steps.”

“What’s the plan for when we get to my room, huh?” asked Regina. She grinned lazily. “You two gonna undress me?”

Killian gagged. “Woman, don’t you _dare_ cross into the horny drunk territory.”

“Oh, don’t you even!” cried Regina, smacking him in the face—on purpose this time.

“Ow! What?!”

“You didn’t even ask for my permission to date Emma—you don’t get a say on what drunk I should be,” said Regina nose in the air, though the pride in the action was marred by the fact that her toes were still dragging along as she hung between the two of them.

Emma choked on her own spit. “Who says he needs _your_ permission?!”

Regina scoffed. “Don’t even _pretend_ that you two aren’t gonna date and then get married and then having a bunch of swashbuckling, magical children that are gonna give me gray hairs long before I get wrinkles.” She burped. “The moment Killian Jones walks into your bedroom, Emma Swan, is the moment he never leaves, which means closer proximity to Henry. And since I’m Henry’s mother too, I have a say as well. I’m in this door on the left.”

Blushing so hard their faces should be on fire, Killian and Emma didn’t look anywhere but the door to Regina’s bedroom. Emma nudged the door open with her foot, and they hauled Regina the rest of the way before dumping her on her blue-sheeted bed, where she crawled under the covers, head-first so her bare feet rested on the pillows.

“For the record,” she said, muffled by the beddings. “I approve of you two stupids. You’re disgustingly cute together.”

Emma cleared her throat and hesitantly glanced at Killian out of the corner of her eyes. He was smiling at her widely—smug, drunk, and happy.

“Shut up,” she said, leading the way out of the room. “Let’s get some water and find _separate rooms_ so we can get some rest.”

“Very well, love,” said Killian, stuffing his hands in his pockets and following her out, still smug. “Good night, Madam Mayor.”

Her reply was a loud snore.

“Do you think she’ll be all right with her head under there?” asked Emma.

Killian grimaced a bit before jogging back to the bed, pulling the cover out from under the mattress and flipping them so Regina’s head poked out. Emma picked up the wastebasket from beside the vanity and setting it down by Regina’s head.

“We’ll bring her a glass of water and some of that Toblerone later,” said Killian.

“Tylenol.”

“Aye.” He paused. “What’s Toblerone then?”

“The triangle chocolate with the toffee pieces in it.”

“Bloody delicious, those.”

“I’d drink to that.”

They walked back out and shut the door behind them softly, the quiet following them as they trekked back down the stairs and into Regina’s sprawling kitchen. Emma flicked on the lights as Killian began rifling through the cupboards for some cups. It took him three cupboards to find a couple of mugs, and when he turned around Emma was already sitting _on_ the counter, a fork in one hand and the other already in her mouth, a half-eaten tin of store-bought pumpkin pie in front of her.

“That sugar is going to disagree with you tomorrow, love,” he said, turning to the sink to fill up the cups with water.

“I disagree with that statement,” said Emma. “Nothing disagrees with pie.”

“If you say so, darling,” he said, setting a mug in front of her and taking a long swig from his own.

She offered the other fork to him. “Fork.”

“Aye, that’s a fork.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking at him as if he was stupid. “For you to eat pie with me.”

Killian sighed, looking at her, the fork, the pie, and then her again. He’d be able to deny her very little. He accepted the fork and took a small portion. “Not bad.”

“So was Regina right?”

Killian choked and frowned up at her incredulously. “Pardon?”

“If you walk into my bedroom,” she asked, chewing slowly. “Would you ever walk back out?”

He sighed. “Not if you don’t want me to, love.”

Emma nodded, eyes scrunched in pleasure. “ _Very_ good answer.”

“Thanks.” He took another bite if only to buy him time to think if she asked him another question.

“Why?”

 _Bloody fuck_. That bite of pie had been a damn-good idea. He slowed his chews as he tried to come up with _why_ he wouldn’t leave unless she asked him to apart from the obvious.

“You can only chew that pie so long before you’ll end up wanting to spit it out rather than swallow,” she said wryly, eyes twinkling with inebriated mischief.

He cocked an eyebrow, rested his elbows on the counter, and maintained eye contact as he continued chewing. He swallowed little by little, but she was right. He couldn’t prolong this—for the sake of her question and for the food in his mouth.

Killian finally swallowed and took a sip of water to brace himself. “I know where I stand in this relationship, Emma, so I’m leaving it all up to you. I’ve worked through what I needed to, but I can’t speak for you and where you are in terms of your romantic availability.”

“Didn’t we already talk about this the last time we were drunk?” asked Emma, twirling her fork between her hands.

The movement vaguely reminded him of Snow White’s three-pronged threat, and he wondered if Emma held the same belief. He hoped not.

“I talked,” he replied. “You contemplated my words.”

She nodded. “True.”

“And to what conclusions did your contemplations lead you?”

“That you were wrong,” said Emma, hunching down so her elbows rested on her knees, bringing her face closer to his.

Killian tapped his fork against the tin. “What was I wrong about, darling?”

“Love is always going to be a risk,” she said, “because you still might lose it.”

“Wrong, darling.”

She smirked. “And why is that?”

“Because love is a very simple concept,” he said, setting the fork down to rest his chin in his open palm. “There is no such thing as _true_ love because _love_ is true. If it isn’t, it’s not love at all. No such thing as _unconditional_ love because love in and of itself is unconditional. You can’t make a distinction.”

“Are you going to give me a lesson in semantics?”

“No, darling. I’m telling you that if you think you can lose it, it’s not love at all,” said Killian seriously. “If your parents die, will you then start denying that they ever loved you? If I died, would you think I ceased to love you, even from the grave?”

Emma blinked, the mischief fading from her hazel eyes as the gravity of his words began to settle in her expression.

“Just because you lost the person didn’t mean you lost their love,” he continued. “I’ve lived many years, darling, and I spent most of it running after something I thought I’d lost, and it took me a long time to realize that I was just running in circles because I’d never actually lost it.”

“Are you talking about Milah?” she asked.

“I’m talking about Milah, aye,” he answered. “And I’m talking about my parents, my brother—all the people I missed and yearned to see once more. I yearned for my family, for the love that I had briefly but powerfully.” He rubbed a smudge on the sparkling granite countertop before looking up and meeting her hazel gaze again. “But it wasn’t until I met you that I realized that being separated—by some bloody curse or a town line or massive distances or time itself—never changed how we feel about someone we love. Your parents loved you when you were in their arms, so briefly, and they continued to love you after the curse, aching and missing something they didn’t know they had.

“I’ve lived for so long, procrastinated without even realizing, and it finally hit me when I met you,” he said. “Your father and I talked several weeks ago, about how he should treat you, a valid point. He didn’t know whether to treat you more like a friend than a daughter, if you’d be resentful of his presence or if you’d be embittered that he was just now being the father he should have been.”

Emma’s lip was trembling. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him to love you,” he answered plainly. “We can live for only two days or two millennia, Emma, but it means nothing if we don’t surround yourself with things worth living for. I didn’t sail the seas for three hundred years; I lived in limbo, angry and bitter and lost because I dwelled on everything that had been taken from me. If you think of life in terms of losses, you’ll only ever gain pain.”

“Poignant,” she muttered softly.

“I’m not trying to be poetic, sweetheart, I’m just trying to put the world in a perspective that’ll inspire you to live,” he said, lifting his head so he could stroke her jaw with his fingertips.

“You’re trying to influence my decision about you,” she said, trying to correct him.

He shook his head. “Never. Emma…” He sighed and straightened up, pushing the pie and cups away and planting his hands on her waist to drag her closer so her legs dangled on either side of his hips. He picked up her hands to kiss her knuckles.

“What are you doing?” she muttered.

“Your father believes you to be a miracle, your mother the same. Henry, Red, the curmudgeon, the entire town believes you to be a miracle,” he began, his lips against her fingers. “They’ve put you on a pedestal and are too far away to hear your protests, but I know what you are, love. You’re not a god. You’re a human. You’re cracked and lonely, holding yourself at arm’s length so you can’t be any more broken and any more lonely, but you know you’re only making it worse. You’re strong and beautiful and damaged and wonderful and bitter and inspiring and… _amazing_. But you don’t belong on that pedestal, Emma, simply because you don’t want to be on it at all. And I think you should do what you want, not influenced by greater forces or greater responsibilities.”

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, and took a deep, shaky breath that she let out through her nose slowly. He was thankful for that; after the amount of alcohol she’d had, the pie probably wouldn’t have covered anything up.

“I want you to make your decision about me based on what you _want_ , Emma, not because of what you’re _afraid of_.”

She pulled her hands out of his grasp to rest them on his shoulder and on the back of his neck, playing with the small hairs on the nape of his neck.

“So I’m going to ask you, darling,” he said, voice more like a brush against her lips rather than a whisper. “What do you want?”

“You.” Her answer was immediate, no hesitation. “What do you want, Killian?”

He grinned, wide and happy, and he wound his arms around her middle, tugging her flush against his chest. “You, Emma. Always you.”

Emma matched his smile, his world lighting up in spite of the dim bulbs above them. And then she bent down to kiss him—but she missed, her lips landing on the corner of his mouth. She laughed, pulling back, squinting to find his lips, and kissing him properly.

She was drunk and sleepy, and so her kisses were lazy and laced with whiskey and cinnamon, and so he took his time getting acquainted with this Emma, this sweet and slow and soft Emma that didn’t brashly grab him into a kiss in the middle of a jungle. He kissed her tentatively, tugging and brushing as he held her close and cradled the side of her face, the pads of his fingers ghosting across her skin reverently.

It was Emma who suddenly seemed to catch fire, peeling off her jacket as she deepened the kiss, nipping his lip to make him exhale shakily and slowly tasting the roof of his mouth. Her legs locked around his hips, her fingers dragging his shirt down and blazing thin trails of fire across his collarbone.

“Emma, darling,” he muttered between kisses. “You and I both know this isn’t the right time for anything to really…”

“Really what?” she asked, leaving a dotted line of hot kisses across his cheek, along his jaw, and down his neck.

“Come to f-fruition?” he asked. The tail of his statement squeaked up into a question when she sucked on the junction of his neck and shoulder.

She hummed against his skin. “You’re right.” She nipped his skin, making him growl and reclaim her lips in a kiss that had her sliding right off the counter and into his arms. She pulled back as he repaid the favor, kissing down the column of her neck and sucking on her pulse. “Plus we’re in Regina’s house.”

He grunted in reply.

“And what I want is definitely not suitable for the kitche—”

He pinned her against the fridge door, the magnets skidding and several clattering to the floor. He covered her mouth to keep her from saying much anything else that would drive him to run her out of the house and to wherever she deemed more “suitable.” And that thought alone had him slowing down their kisses, tapering them off into gentle pecks as he slowly lowered her feet back onto the floor.

“We should really get to bed,” he muttered against the corner of her lips. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, well.” She leaned up and kissed him again briefly. “Drunken shenanigans are fun.”

He shook his head, chuckling, before leaning away and taking her hand, helping her slowly drag her feet along, sleepy and just a bit disoriented.

“Just for the record,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Just because there’s alcohol involved doesn’t mean regrets are dancing around with it.”

Killian grinned and flicked off the lights of the kitchen. “Good.” And then he vaguely wondered how in the hell she managed to get his jacket off and four buttons undone without him even noticing.

He’d gone and landed himself a bloody thief, and he’d never been so happy about it.

* * *

The door to the master bedroom swung open—thankfully without any creaks. The Queen of the Enchanted Forest, the once-evil sorceress apprentice of the Dark One himself, the legendary Mayor of Storybrooke, crept out of her room, her comforter swathed around her like a cloak, dragging along the cream carpet behind her. Regina’s movements were slow and quiet not to maintain the serenity of the mansion, but rather because of the hangover that was a curse in and of itself.

She practically melted down the hall, somehow managing to stay intact by virtue of having the comforter wrapped around her.

Thankfully, it was a rainy day out, so the sun wasn’t beaming through the windows and trying to scorch her and blind her. Thankfully, it was quiet. Thankfully, there were no curses or stray villains threatening the town.

Unfortunately, the mansion was fucking huge, so the trek from her bedroom to her kitchen nearly killed her. She had to take a break by the foyer table, leaning against the surface until the room stopped spinning.

After what felt like two miles that took two days, she finally reached the kitchen whereupon she nearly slipped on a familiar black leather jacket that was on the floor.

“Oh, God, please no,” she muttered—though her throat was parched that there was no volume so she was basically mouthing the words. She pulled the hood of her comforter back slightly to survey the state of her kitchen and grimaced.

There were two mugs and the pumpkin pie she’d bought from the store—half-eaten with two forks still in the empty section of the tin. Her grimace deepened.

Another familiar leather jacket, red this time, was on the floor by that section of the counter. Her grimace was practically scored into muscle.

Not far from the leather jacket were some magnets that must have clattered onto the floor, and her eyes followed the trail to the utter disarray on the fridge door. Her grimace was so deep it must’ve been carved straight into her skull by now.

The town sheriff and the pirate captain had some sort of liaison in her kitchen, while she was passed out on her bed. And they ate her pie. And now she had to disinfect the entire kitchen. Or burn it.

“Assholes.”

The sentiment was repeated when it took another hour and a half for the aforementioned assholes to descend the stairs in that stupid, sleepy, affectionate manner that couples drag around in their honeymoon phase. Regina simply rolled her eyes—and regretted it immediately; her headache throbbed—when Killian and Emma walked into the thrice-disinfected kitchen, hand in hand. Killian had just kissed her temple, and Emma grabbed the front of his shirt to pull him down into a more satisfactory kiss.

There’d be none of that.

Regina cleared her throat, glaring at the two over the rim of her glass. Killian only smirked and threw his arm around Emma’s shoulders. Emma, at least, had the decency to blush. It faded however, when she saw exactly what was in Regina’s hand.

“Is that a mimosa?” demanded Emma worriedly.

Killian, on the other hand, had focused on the plates of omelets, hash browns, ham, and muffins that decorated the kitchen island that they’d previously occupied the night before. “Are those muffins banana nut?”

Regina continued to glare at them. “Are those your jackets?” She used the mimosa to point at the offending garments that were resting on barstools. “And is that your handiwork?” The mimosa moved toward the messily-decorated fridge door. “You can be damn-sure I’m telling your parents about this.”

Grinning as he took a huge bite of a muffin, Killian barely shrugged as he sat down in front of an empty place setting. “Cooking with a hangover is a hell of a skill, Madam Mayor,” he said, nodding. “You have my compliments.”

“Thanks,” answered Regina dryly. She turned to Emma, who was still standing behind the barstool, grimacing at the fridge. “Anything _you_ wanna add?”

Emma cleared her throat and motioned at the mimosa Regina sipped from. “For the record, nothing happened.”

Regina didn’t look convinced.

Emma sighed. It wasn’t a battle worth fighting. If Regina thought they defiled her kitchen, then it could be considered mild payback for all the mind games she’d forced them into before. “You got another one of those?”

Killian snorted. “What was that saying again, love? _It’s five o’clock somewhere_?”

Emma sat down next to him, still blushing a shade darker than her leather jacket as Regina poured her a drink. “This is a kitchen bar,” she said blandly, patting the granite counter, “and I need a drink.”

“You know what usually happens at bars too, love?” asked Killian, resting his foot on the low bar of her stool.

“Fights?” offered Regina.

“No,” he answered, smiling wryly. “Storytelling.”

Regina’s eyes widened. “Oh, _hell_ no, I’m not gonna—”

“Remind me again, Emma, how did Regina’s tale start off last night?” asked Killian, tapping his lip with his fork.

Emma tried to stifle her smile as she began loading her plate. “ _Once upon a horrible fucking day_.”

Regina groaned. “I don’t even remember this.”

“I’d imagine you wouldn’t,” said Killian. “And I’m quite jealous because this story is probably going to echo in the recesses of my mind. You, Queen Mayor, have quite a _filthy_ mouth.”

Emma laughed. “You can be damn-sure I’m gonna tell my parents about _that_.”

Killian pointed his fork at Regina, grinning at the woman’s disgusted-and-horrified expression. “You may need more alcohol than that.”


End file.
